Tantamount to Drowning
by Jayneysuk
Summary: This was started within minutes of the Christmas episode finishing. All I planned to do was find a way to get from Isobel not wanting to risk everything for marriage to finding her way back to the man she is clearly fond of. The last few minutes put pay to that and this has become a more angsty, therapeutic story.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Tantamount To Drowning **  
Pairing : Isobel/Richard  
Rating: K for now  
Spoiler: Set post Christmas 2012 episode so major spoilers for events in that episode.

Notes: I started this within minutes of the episode finishing, within an hour I had seven pages written, (unfortunately not the beginning but at least the direction is set), And it has flowed ever since. All I planned to do was find a way to get from Isobel not wanting to risk everything for marriage to finding her way back to the man she is clearly fond of. The last few minutes of the episode put pay to that and this has become a more angsty, more therapeutic story.

A short chapter to start but it will be a multi chapter piece.

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Richard stood at the back of the gathering, his thick wool coat his only protection against the cold wind that blew through the graveyard. Although summer there seemed to be an almost arctic chill to the air, a fitting accompaniment to the occasion, the sun hidden behind an angry grey sky that promised more than summer showers in its wake. As Travis continued in a monotone, his voice in shocking contrast to the vibrant life that they were saying goodbye to, Richard allowed his attention to drift to the other mourners. Most of the village had turned up to mourn, standing on every available foot of grass, even those who rarely had a good word to say about the family. As on so many occasions he found himself next to the servants, his eyes drawn to Anna, opening weeping against her husband and he had to tear his gaze aware, focusing instead on the family.

They were gathered at the front, close to the open grave, stoic even in their grief. Leaning slightly to his left he caught sight of Isobel, flanked on either side by Lady Edith and Lord Grantham, neither touching her, each trying to take on some of the loss she must feel, ready to catch her when she fell. For a brief, almost selfish moment, he wished that he was the one standing there, ready to catch her, but he didn't have the words to comfort her, nor was she likely to want him. Instead he kept the polite, proper distance that was befitting of his status, and grieved for the overwhelming loss she had endured. To her right stood Lady Mary, her mother gripping her arm. There had been tears at the hospital, an outright refusal to allow the baby to leave her side and then nothing. In the days that followed she had remained stoic and silently grieving, clinging to the child as though it was her life raft.

Richard stared down at his feet, the image of Matthew lying dead beside the road forcing its way into his memory when he only wanted to remember the young man who had been smiling and happy, shaking his hand and thanking him profusely for the safe delivery of his son. He was not close to the younger man but he liked him, grieved for him, grieved for his mother who had lost her son. The adage was that you should never outlive your children, in her case it had never been more true. What little he had seen of her in the intervening days had been enough to convince him she was not the same woman. Her grief was raw, her anger barely held in check and he had wanted to relieve her of it but instead had uttered pointless platitudes.

The gathering began to disperse as the vicar committed his body to God, and he watched as the mourners moved through the church yard, most heading home, a few invited to the wake. His eyes were once again drawn to Isobel, standing alone by the grave, waving off the family to grieve alone for a minute.

Richard watched, wanting desperately to comfort her, but knowing it wasn't his place. As she crouched, leaning precariously close to the grave, he moved instantly, prepared to pull her back, the irrationality of his conclusion not lost on him.

"Isobel?" he said softly, when she righted herself and stepped back. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to startle you."

Her lips barely registered a smile and he was reminded once again that she was but a shell of the woman he knew. "Richard?" One hand moved to her face as she lifted the black netting that covered her eyes, allowing him to see her face, red puffy eyes and tear streaked cheeks evidence of her grief.

"I don't mean to intrude."

"You're not. I just needed a moment." She glanced around before turning to face him. "I haven't been alone since it happened, not properly. And all this. I don't know."

"Is someone taking you back to the Abbey?"

She nodded. "I'm sure someone is taking care of it. Robert has been kind enough to take care of everything."

There was something in the way she said it that made him wonder if she had been sidelined, if in the midst of ensuring a service fitting for a future Earl, his sweet adoring mother had been forgotten. It irked him and again he had to remind himself that it wasn't his place to comment. "Good. It was a lovely service."

"Everyone is really very kind."

"I came over to say how so very sorry I am for your loss. I liked Matthew. He was always so kind and brave, so very like you."

Isobel took a deep breath and he knew that she was trying to keep her emotions in check. "Thank you. He was very glad that you were there for Mary and the baby."

The baby. After three days of nursing he had discharged Lady Mary and her child home, believing that in the familiar surroundings and with her family close by she would grieve properly. She had walked out head held high, the baby tightly pressed against chest. The only indicator that she was tormented the fact that she refused to name the child. "How is the little fella?"

A real smile lit up her face. "He's wonderful. I've been staying at the house so I get to see him every day. Sometimes I see Matthew in him, other times he's all Mary," she offered with a sniff as though it was further evidence that her boy was gone.

Edith appeared, and hovered just in view, and he realised that their time alone was at an end. "Are you holding up alright? Do you need me to prescribe something to help you sleep?" he asked softly, his voice low so no one else could hear. She was after all a proud woman and he was loathe that anyone should think differently of her, think her weak.

"I really don't want anything," she replied, her voice equally as gentle, her hand resting on his arm for the briefest of seconds. "I just need to be busy."

"If you . . ."

"I won't," she assured him with certainty. "But thank you. Edith, I'm coming now." She took a step, moving around him. "Are you coming back to the house?"

He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "I would like to very much but I have a patient and . . ."

"I understand." She moved away. "You would hate it as much as I'm sure I'm going to," she offered sadly. "Goodbye, Doctor Clarkson."

"Goodbye Mrs Crawley." He watched as she meandered through the headstones, Edith's hand now holding her arm, the black veil once again concealing her face. Close up she had seemed a little lost, but as she walked he noted a fragility to her gait, defeatism in her posture. He had wanted to be there for her, to offer more than platitudes but selfishly he knew he would want to offer her so much more. His place was as her friend, not at her right hand, ready to catch her when she fell, and she would eventually. Better to keep away, to tend to those that needed his help and allow her to mourn her son in whatever way she deemed necessary.

He wasn't aware how long he had been standing there, his thoughts centred on her until he felt the first drop of rain ricochet off of his hat and onto his coat. Stretching his hand out he watched as it began to fall heavier, drops merging on his clothes, staining the material. Finally he began to walk leaving the grave diggers to fill in the hole, heading to the hospital, heavy hearted.

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	2. Chapter 2

The plan is to post a chapter every three or four days, my muse prevailing. It may seem a little slow going to begin with but as they both have so much to say there are going to be quite a few chapters. (Currently six drafted out and nowhere near finished.)

Happy New Year.

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**Tantamount to Drowning**

**Part Two**

Richard knocked on the imposing wood door and stepped back almost reverently, his eyes as they always did, admiring the splendour that was the Abbey. Whether it was intricate stone work, the finely crafted woodwork or the extensive and flourishing gardens he couldn't resist a second look. Not that he coveted the house or the life that accompanied it. He rather liked the simple life, the cosy cottage that was endowed on him as the village doctor and the freedom that came with his position, unhindered by class or privilege. He had good friends and a quiet life. There were things he coveted, people who made his day a little better and he often wished that a wife had been part of the life plan God had drawn up for him, but he was happy and healthy and he knew better to dwell on what he didn't have. His interest in the house was purely for its beauty and for the history, and certainly not for the trappings that came with it. Letting out a deep sigh, he turned, preparing to gaze out on the magnificent vista, but the door opened behind him.

"Good morning Doctor Clarkson," Carson said, his tone and expression revealing his puzzlement at the presence of the man on the door step.

"Good morning Mr Carson. Lady Mary telephoned to ask if I would call and check on the baby." He shifted his medical bag to his other hand and removed his hat, waiting to be invited in.

"Is he unwell?" The expression changed to one of concern.

Richard shook his head and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The older man doted on the eldest daughter of the house and the doctor would frequently leave her room and find the Butler pacing the hallways, brow furrowed. "I think she just wanted me to check he was putting on weight and doing everything he should."

Carson nodded, seemingly satisfied, and finally stepped back allowing the doctor entry. "Very well, I'll show you to the nursery."

The sound of the gentle click of heels on tile echoed through the Great Hall as Richard was finally bid entry into the house and the Butler took his hat. Both men looked up, a smile quirking on Richard's lips as he caught sight of the petite woman in black making her way towards them.

"There's no need, Carson, I'll show him up. Mary won't mind, I assure you." Although gentle her tone was firm, and with a frown the Butler excused himself leaving the two of them alone. "Good morning, doctor."

Richard turned slightly and fixed his smile in place. It had been a week since the funeral and he had lost many an hour wondering how she was doing, but it was the first time he had come face to face with her. As his eyes wandered over her tiny frame, he realised his concern was not unjustified. On first glance she looked pale, not the ghostly white she had the day she sat in his office and he had told her Matthew was alive but may never walk again, because then she had been concerned he would die; she was however almost grey, all hints of the blues and purples he associated with her gone, the reality of death rendering her lifeless. Dark circles indicated she hadn't slept in quite some days and her beautiful chocolate coloured eyes were glassy, almost vacant. "Good day, Mrs Crawley."

"I'm fine," she said with a hint of irritation as he continued his appraisal. "Really, Richard, you don't need to consider everyone as a potential patient."

Briefly he turned away, unable to find a response that would be considered appropriate and fearful of who might be passing through the entrance hall to overhear what he really thought. "As a friend, Isobel, would you tell me if you weren't?"

Nibbling her bottom lip, she turned away, embarrassed that in all honesty she wouldn't.

"As long as you know that I'm here, if, or when, you need me, as a doctor or a friend," he said, ducking his head to catch her eye. It was a simple statement but in their many years of friendship he could not remember voicing it out loud, a fact that saddened him as he found himself standing before her, bearing witness to the pain she was now in. "Now, shall we go and see how the little one is doing."

A small, fleeting smile crossed her lips, all too brief and gone before he could commit it to memory. "Of course, please follow me." She crossed the floor and began climbing the staircase to the first floor, pausing momentarily to glance back at him. "Thank you."

He nodded his own thanks, concerned that even the simplest of comments could tilt the exchange in totally the opposite direction. "I am surprised to still find you here," he said as they reached the landing.

"Where else am I supposed to go?" she asked, sadness evident in her voice. "Crawley house is full of memories, constant reminders of my son and the life he'll never have. My housekeeper doesn't know what to say and there isn't really much for her to do. Matthew was a husband here. It's different. He wasn't my boy here but a man. I can't explain it."

"You don't have to," he assured her softly. "You need to be wherever you can find some peace."

"And the baby is here, and Mary." Isobel came to a halt on the landing, Mary's bedroom door before them. "Mary is keeping him in here rather than in the nursery."

"Has he still no name?" Richard asked as they waited for Anna to open the door and allow them in.

"She cannot bear to make the decision." Although they had discussed it at length, the child's name had never been decided. Matthew had come to her and asked if she would mind awfully if the baby didn't take his fathers name and she had told him quite firmly that if it was a boy that they could choose whatever name they choose. His next quip had been that the child would be coming of age before they stopped arguing the matter. Mary it seemed was now loath to make the decision alone. "I suppose she will eventually."

The door opened and Anna appeared, stepping out into the hallway before offering, "Her Ladyship is ready to see you."

Isobel entered first, heading straight for the bed and the woman propped up against the headboard. He waited a beat before following, hovering some distance away.

"Doctor Clarkson has come to check on the baby," Isobel said, her tone one that would be better suited to a child, not the grown woman before her. "He can do it here."

"Doctor Clarkson, good morning," she said, her body language giving no indication that there was anything good about it. "Thank you so much for coming. He's perfectly well but I thought, considering he was premature, that you might need to see him," she explained, her voice a monotone.

Richard stepped further into the room and was shaken by what he saw. The young woman before him, who had been a picture of health a few weeks previously, glowing in pregnancy, was anything but. Gaunt and pale, her eyes held the same glassy expression as her mother in law and she seemed to be lost in her world. "Lady Mary."

"May I?" Isobel asked as she crossed to the crib and bent down.

Mutely, Mary nodded, her eyes watching carefully, her hands moving through the air, preparing to move if anything was a miss.

Isobel picked the baby up and settled him into the crook of her arm, leaning down to kiss the soft downy hair, before carrying him over. "Where would you like him, Doctor?"

"On the bed is fine. Near his mother." Richard opened his bag and picked up his stethoscope. "I'm going to undress him, listen to his heart, weigh him and then check his reflexes. If you have no problem with me doing that."

She shook her head and he began his careful examination, waiting as Isobel undressed him, then held him in the correct position. All the while Mary looked on, saying nothing but her eyes never leaving the small child on the bed.

"He's put on three ounces," Richard said with a smile, running his finger along the baby's foot and getting a kick in response. "Is he eating well?"

"Constantly."

"That's a good sign. You can dress him now." He packed up his instruments and turned back to the new mother. He longed to examine her, to advise her on the importance of taking care of herself but he feared it would prove pointless. Instead he would have to wait until she was ready or, and he hoped it would not prove the case, she completely broke down and her family sent for him. "Well I'm pleased to say, your Ladyship, that he is healthy and doing very well."

She almost smiled. "Thank you." Her eyes drifted to the baby wriggling in his granny's arms. "My mother says I should hurry up and name him. A future Earl should be addressed as something other than baby."

"I'm sure there are Earls and probably Kings who have been called worse. Isn't you great Uncle called Shrimpy?"

"Yes. Cousin Shrimpy. I think it's the American in her. She wants it tied up in a neat little package. We so wanted a beautiful name for our little prince." Holding out her arms, she waited for Isobel to place him gently into them. "I am thinking of Matthew for a middle name. Not his first, I'm not sure Isobel or I could cope with that."

He suddenly felt like an interloper, almost voyeuristically viewing their pain as their thoughts went simultaneously to the young man who had been so tragically taken from their lives. Opening his mouth, he prepared to make his excuses, but as Isobel stepped back she brushed against him and he no longer wanted to move, content to stay there for the rest of the day for even the minutest of contact.

"What do think doctor? Everyone else seems to have an opinion."

"It's not my place," he offered, distracted by the softness of Isobel's hair against his jacket, the intricacy of her curls. He took a deep breath, and found himself breathing in the scent of lavender. Clearing his throat and trying to deny the effect she was having, he said, "I guess for a prince there should be a regal name. Maybe you could name him after a King. Henry, George, Edward, Albert. . ." he trailed off as they both looked up at him in wonder. "Did I say something wrong?"

Mary shook her head. "No, not at all. It's just Matthew liked Edward. He said it was simple and just so, and Matthew didn't like fuss. I never thought of it as a prince's name." Her eyes misted over as she glanced down at the boy in her arms.

"I'll come back next week and weigh him again, or I can have a nurse come and do it."

She glanced up briefly. "No, please, I'd like it if you'd come. Isobel, would you show the doctor out."

"Good day, Lady Mary."

Isobel closed the door behind them and turned to face him. "I think you just made a friend."

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"You said the right thing, which in this house, right now, is a minor miracle." Lightly she squeezed his arm and he had to stop himself covering it with his own.

"Sometimes, Isobel, people know what the right thing to do is, they just need to think they made the decision themselves. Forcing people to do something they aren't ready for is tantamount to begging them to defy all logic and everything they believe in." He looked at her, eyebrow arched.

"And if they don't know what the right thing to do is?"

"Then it isn't the right time to make the decision." His smile widened. "I can show myself out if you have things you need to be doing." As much as he didn't want to leave, he also didn't want to out stay his welcome. While they had been talking about Mary he hoped she realised his words could easily be applied to her; that when she was ready he would be there.

She shook her head. "I have nothing to do, Richard." It hadn't slipped her notice the ease with which he used her Christian name, nor the way he was looking at her expectantly. "In fact I was meaning to telephone you. I was wondering, and I know we never actually got around to discussing it, but would you permit me to return to the hospital," she asked as they made their way back through the house.

"Of course." Her question surprised him and he fought the urge to ask her why.

"Maybe just for a few hours, a few days a week. I'm not even sure I will be of much use."

"Let me be the judge of that," he said softly. "And for however long you want. I know we can find you lots to do."

"I really don't doubt that," she said, squeezing his arm gently, sending another wave of emotion through him. "Thank you. Now you must get back to all those patients and I should let Carson know that everything is well."

Richard collected his hat from the coat stand and fitted it snugly on his head. "Good day, Isobel. I hope we see you soon."

"Good day, Richard." She watched as the doctor made his way down the path, quickly disappearing out of view. "Everything is well," she said with an almost smile, turning to look at the Butler as he appeared out of the shadows. "The baby is fine."

"Very good, ma'am."

"So you can stop worrying. I am going to check on Mary and try and get her to rest, and then maybe you could organise some tea."

"Very good. Where would you like to take it?"

She glanced around the Great Hall, at the numerous doors. "In the sitting room, I think." She made her way back up the stairs and knocked lightly on the door to Mary's bedroom before pushing it open and walking in.

"I'm thinking Edward is a good name," Mary said, staring down into the eyes of the baby in her arms.

"It is a good name."

"It is, and Matthew liked it." A lump formed in her throat, as it did every time she said his name and she swallowed hard. "Edward Matthew Crawley. I have considered throwing in another middle name but the poor child would never use it anyway. What do think Isobel?"

Isobel tilted her head and studied her only grandchild, a sudden thought forcing its way into her head, bringing a fresh wave of grief. Her only grandchild. There would never be a bonny little girl in Mary's image running wild across the estate or for her to spoil. Edward would be her everything, as he was Mary's, as Matthew had been.

"Isobel, are you quite alright?" Mary asked, her face contorting in concern.

She held up her hand. "I'm fine. Just sometimes. . . I think the name is perfect. He's perfect. Your mother, and cousin Violet will be relieved."

"But you like it?"

"Yes."

"Of course the next thing will be a Christening but I'm not sure any of us is ready for that."

Isobel continued to stare at the baby, her thoughts drifting as they frequently did. "Would you mind if I moved back to Crawley House? Your father keeps assuring me its mine for life and I can't stay here forever." She had only just told Richard that there was nothing for her at the house but as she watched Mary nurse her son, she knew it was time to go. She had had her time, raised her child, built a life for herself. Maybe she wasn't ready for her life to continue the way it was but maybe it wasn't so bad to want to be surrounded by memories of her son.

"You can. Your Edwards grandmother. We love having you!" Mary exclaimed.

She settled on the edge of the bed. "And I love seeing him every day but he's your son. The last thing you need is an interfering mother in law breathing down your neck."

"So you're leaving me with my interfering mother breathing down my neck?" she asked forcing a smile.

"Think of it this way, when they all become too much, you can always escape and pay me a visit."

Mary nodded, "Don't think we won't. You're going back to the hospital."

"I am," she agreed, a little surprised. "It will be good for me. I'll be busy and needed. You don't mind, do you?" She needed desperately to be doing something. Sitting around at the Abbey doing nothing was doing her little good. It gave her time to think, and thinking made her sad.

"Of course I don't." She gently rocked Edward in her arms. "He's a good man. You should let him help you."

"He is." She ducked her head, embarrassed slightly that Mary seemed to be reading her thoughts. "He is helping me by letting me go back to work."

Mary raised an eyebrow but wisely said nothing.

Isobel lightly rubbed the baby's foot before rising to her feet. She couldn't tell her daughter that he was the reason she was going back to work. He would give her a reason to get up in the morning, he'd make sure she wasn't alone and he wouldn't expect her to behave as propriety dictated. Everything she needed, she mused, as she came to terms with her grief. "Carson is making me some tea, so I'll leave you two alone."

"Isobel," a quiet voice called after her. "Don't become a stranger, please."

She turned briefly. "I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the slight delay in posting but damn headaches have meant I've been unable to type for most of the last week.

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Pulling the door firmly shut behind him and adjusting his hat to keep the sun from his eyes, Richard set out on the short walk through the village. He had overslept; waking to the post dawn sun rather than the grey of the sky between night and morning. He hardly ever overslept; could probably count the number of times on one hand (maybe two if he included a few New Years Days in his almost misspent youth) since coming to Downton. While he should feel flustered and disorganised, there was something about waking up without the shrilling of an alarm, waking to the warming rays of sunshine through the window, that had put him in a good mood. Instead of rushing out of the door he had taken a few minutes to eat breakfast and make a strong pot of tea, enjoying standing in his doorway admiring his small garden. As he walked through the village towards the hospital, he even managed a good morning and a smile for everyone he met. It was in sharp contrast to his mood of late, to the irritation of having to deal with people who felt they had the right to gossip, to his frustration of dealing with nurses who seemed unable to deal with his simple requests. Whether his good mood would last the day was something even he couldn't guarantee but for once he was looking forward to what the day might bring.

Richard took a deep breath, banishing his negative thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the good weather and the possibility of a light day. He had woken up feeling rejuvenated and he had promised himself as he carried out his ministrations that he wasn't going to let things get him down.

His eyes drifted momentarily to the stone wall which protected Crawley House from the prying eyes of the village gossips. Many a morning he had walked past and wondered how she was doing, debated the merits of throwing caution to the wind and knocking on her door, but he had told her, or at least intimated that she would know when she was ready to start her life again. He respected that, even if he missed her and longed for the day that her note arrived and she returned to the hospital. The last time he had seen her she had been standing in the doorway of the Abbey with an almost smile on her lips. It seemed at times a lifetime a go, but was in fact only ten days. His thoughts drifted to her constantly, when he least expected them to, at the most inopportune moments, and he wondered when exactly she had gone from being the bane of his life to the centre of his universe. It was absurd but he had spent a lifetime waiting to feel like this and however hopeless it might be he was loathe to fight it. He took another deep sustaining breath and returned his gaze to the road in front of him, unable to resist one last fleeting glance over his shoulder.

"Good morning, doctor."

Richard smiled at the nurse hurrying down the corridor to greet him. "Good morning, nurse," he replied, offering a rare smile and trying to ignore the look of utter surprise that crossed her features. "Rounds in about an hour, please."

"Yes, doctor." Her brow furrowed into a deep vee and she was about to open her mouth to speak when she thought better of it and backtracked towards the nearest ward.

As she disappeared through a door, he rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt. Her back was to him, but there was no mistaking that it was Isobel, her image burned into his brain, taunting him even in his dreams. While he couldn't really tell how she was, the fact that she was standing in the corridor, hair neatly finished in a bun, hat pinned at a jaunty angle, and wearing the deep charcoal dress that she had furnished into a nurses uniform, told him that she was there to work. That, he mused, must mean that she was one step closer to working through her grief.

Her lips quirked up into a smile as she heard his familiar foot falls on the tile floor, but she continued the pretence of reading the notices, waiting for him to say her name, prolonging the anticipation of seeing him.

"Mrs Crawley?" he said, barely masking his surprise or delight at her presence.

Isobel finally turned, her eyes drifting up from the floor, appraising him in much the same way as he did her every time they were alone. Tilting her head on one side and giving him the smallest of smiles, she met his eyes.

Richard glanced hesitantly up and down the corridor and lowered his voice, fearful that he would embarrass himself if they stood there any longer, studying each other, words superfluous to express the genuine warmth they felt for each other. "Please, come into my office." He extended his hand, indicating for her to enter first.

Once the door was firmly closed behind them, he crossed the room, taking the few moments to conceal the absolute joy he felt in her presence. Placing his hat and case on the desk he turned to look at her. "Why didn't you wait in my office?"

"Good morning, doctor," she said with a smile, unfazed by the brusqueness with which he addressed her.

"Good morning, Mrs Crawley."

She arched an eyebrow and folded her arms across her body, waiting for him to realise the error of his ways.

"Good morning, Isobel." He rolled his eyes in exasperation and waited a beat before continuing, "I was somewhat surprised to find you here."

"In a pleasant way?" she asked, half in teasing, half in apprehension.

He nodded. "I am always happy to see you, Isobel."

"I was going to send you a note to say that I was coming in today but I thought that I might in fact change my mind and let you down. So I decided just to turn up," she finished with a shrug.

"I am very pleased to see you," he said softly but sincerely, his eyes gently appraising her as he spoke and his hands toying nervously with the stack of papers on his desk.

"I'm fine, Richard," she said, her head shaking in dismay. "Honestly. You need to stop worrying. I am more than up to being here."

There were still dark, deep circles under her eyes and there was something about the translucency of her skin that confirmed his suspicions that she had barely left the house in the last few weeks, but as he met her eyes again he noted with some satisfaction that his Isobel was still in there somewhere. "As long as you're sure. And if it gets too much or you get tired, please go home."

"Please don't treat me like china, Doctor Clarkson. I'm here to work, not to get in the way or make a nuisance of myself."

He gave her a crooked smile, blissful memories of their early days working together springing to mind. She had annoyed him daily before the war, and then she had been gone and he found that he had missed their sparing, her uncanny ability to produce medical journals that entirely contradicted his choice of treatment, and her constant presence. What had frustrated him at first had led inexplicably to him falling in love with her. While he had hoped that she might feel the same, miss him enough to want to spend the long nights together, he had been disappointed, but not altogether surprised that she had a fulfilling life without him. Now she was back and for now that had to be enough.

"I thought you found that side of me endearing," she teased, nibbling her bottom lip as she waited, hoping that whatever else had changed that their relationship was still in tack.

"I do. Sometimes," Richard added nonchalantly.

She gave him a small smile. "But in all seriousness, Richard, you need to put me to work."

He rose to his feet, sliding back his chair. "Do you promise to go home when you've had enough? Take a break when you need it? And try not to argue with me constantly?"

Isobel pretended to ponder for a moment or two. "Yes. Yes, if you do the same. And no."

Rolling his eyes, he couldn't help but laugh. "In that case Nurse Crawley, could you start by clearing the breakfast things, then help change the beds in the male ward. By then I should be ready for morning rounds and you can accompany me."

"Yes, doctor." She almost curtseyed but was fearful of setting a precedent. As she reached the door she turned and found him staring after her, his feelings clearly evident in his eyes, and she felt a strange fluttering in her stomach, the constant feeling of being alone strangely dissipating. In that brief second she knew she had made the right decision. "Thank you," she mouthed before tearing her eyes away and disappearing down the corridor.

Richard sank back onto his chair, rubbing his hand across his eyes. She was back, a little damaged, sadness etched across her face but she had taken a step in the right direction. Now that she was back, he would see her, know when she was ready to accept his help and he would no longer lie awake at night worrying about her. His eyes drifted to the open door, to the door frame where she had been standing a few moments before and he inwardly groaned. She was back, she was as beautiful and elegant as ever and within a few minutes banter he knew his feelings ran as deep as ever. Having her there, day in day out was going to be as painful as it ever was, knowing that she would never want him as a husband, could never see him as more than a friend. Richard leant back in his chair, wishing for a moment that he had never encouraged her to come back, but also hoping that she would never again feel the need to leave.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Richard walked purposefully down the empty corridor, intent on making one last check on his patients before he headed home. It was still early but for once he had no qualms about actually going home while it was still light. The wards were fairly quiet, the majority of patients having been discharged before the weekend, the few that remained were deemed too sick to get out of bed. For the nurses it meant regular observations, for him it meant he could be called back at a minutes notice but otherwise it allowed the hospital to settle into relative calm. There was no excuse for him to stay, and he had promised himself a drink at the pub later, but first he wanted to be completely certain that everything would run as it should in his absence.

The sound of a familiar voice drifted from one of the side rooms, words said with a quiet desperation, almost in pain. Richard paused, his concern growing with each word and without hesitation he changed direction, walking down the corridor towards her.

Isobel leaned against the bench, her eyes closed as she tried to fight the exhaustion that racked her body. Her fingers were turning white as she gripped the wooden counter and tried to quash the wave of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her. She was, she had decided as she seemed refuge, too old to be working such long days, too out of practice to be dealing with the endless tasks that allowed nurses to run a hospital. Exhaustion was preferable to allowing her thoughts to consume her and to her detriment she had stepped in the laundry intent on taking a break before heading home, only to succumb to her thoughts. Grief and fatigue now riddled her body and she found the bench was the only thing supporting her tired, achy body. _It's going to alright. I just need to sleep. I can do thi_s. She repeated her mantra over and over, hoping against hope that the hallways would be empty when she finally found her strength and could go home.

"I thought you'd gone home," he said gently. The door had been partially ajar, allowing him a few moments of silent observation before he intruding on her privacy. Everything about her posture, her desperate affirmation told him he had been pushing her too far, not hat she would have allowed him anything else. If wondered if he opened his arms whether she would fall into them, allow him to support her, comfort her, whether she was ready. Instead he watched, and waited, continuing his constant observation, loving her from afar in the hope that she would some day want his help as much as she clearly needed someones help.

Her eyes flew open, darting to the doorway as he finally pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Richard."

He closed the door behind him, pressing his body flat against the wood, his hands clenched at his sides, fearful of his lack of resistance. "Do I have to tell you to go home?" he asked quietly, calmly despite the level of frustration he felt.

She shook her head, lowering her gaze back to the bench.

"Because if it comes to it I can order you. . ." he trailed off as she pulled a face and leaned fractionally away from him. "What?"

"Being surly doesn't suit you," she offered, her tone almost chiding despite the lack of force behind it.

"Ask the other nurses, its an image I've been cultivating the last few months."

"Really? Just months?" She almost teased him; he would have felt relief had it not been for the truth behind her words.

He turned away, embarrassed that even in her absence she had been aware of his behaviour, fearful that his cheeks would flush. Richard respected his nurses, knew they worked hard, were well trained and tried hard to be prepared for his every need, but she had never had to try. With Isobel he had never had to ask for an instrument twice; she had, often without even trying, brought a smile to his face. Her absence had left him searching for such a relationship with the rest of his staff and coming up short, struggling to keep his surly Scottish temper in check. She would, now that she was back, encourage him to try harder, and he would because she asked.

"I'm back now."

In reality he was only too aware she was back. In the two weeks since she had appeared in the corridor on that warm sunny morning, she had been there almost every day. Every afternoon after rounds he would return to his office to find a cup of steaming hot tea on his desk, she was always ready at his side making notes or holding fresh water, and her perfume lingered in the air wherever she went; while they had only argued once it was more down to his restraint than the absence of the frustration she invoked in him. "For how long?" he asked, choking back the lump that formed in his throat.

Isobel released the side of the table, turning and halving the distance between them until her fingers brushed his arm. "For as long as you allow me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She mentally chided herself for not seeing it sooner, no not seeing it, rather not acknowledging it. She had been too caught up in her grief, too much in need of his reassurance to consider that he might need her there as much as she needed to be there.

Richard leaned away from the door, unaware of the rush of breath that left his lungs at her words. "Im not going to let you go again."

"You dear man, you don't know what you're saying." A feint smile formed on her lips, accompanied with a small shake of her head. He couldn't promise it of course, but it was enough to know that she had somewhere to be, somewhere she was needed and wanted.

"Maybe I do. Why don't I walk you home?" he suggested, almost in relief that she wasn't about to leave him again. He had no right of course to stop her leaving again but he fully intended to make it easy for her to be there, to make her feel needed, if only to fulfil his own selfish need to have her permanently back in his life.

"I'd like that."

There had been only the briefest of conversation as they made their way down the corridor, each not lost in their own thoughts but slightly fearful of breaking the spell that had washed over them, that by admitting in some way they needed each other their relationship might change. Richard had helped her into her coat and hat before leaving her for a few moments to fetch his own coat and bag. When he returned she had once again been holding onto the wall, drained of energy, and he had slipped her arm through his, lightly supporting her as they set off for Crawley House.

The short walk complete, he had docked his hat. "And this is where I bid you good night."

"You're not going to see me to my door?" she asked with a half smile. On the walk home he had held her up, his body lightly pressing against her, but not obviously so. She wanted to thank him but she also couldn't admit to it.

"I . . . Of course if you wish."

Gravel crunched under foot as they made their way down the drive towards the front door, her fingers still splayed on his arm, her hip brushing his, sending a tiny array of feelings coursing through her, emotions she was too tired to acknowledge, except that she liked them.

"Would you like to come in for coffee, or maybe for some dinner?" she asked wearily, politeness outweighing her desire to go straight to bed.

For a moment he allowed his mind to drift to another evening, another dinner and he almost said yes, but then he remembered all that had transpired in the past few months. He couldn't allow them to go there again. He shook his head. "Thank you, but not tonight. I'm tired and not much company." He also needed to leave her, to control the less than friendly thoughts he was having towards her as their bodies brushed against each other.

She looked at him skeptically, a little sad that he didn't want to spend time with her beyond the hospital. "I'm sure you would be, as always, very good company," she offered, forcing a smile. "But you're probably right, an early night is probably what we both need."

"Good night Isobel." He inwardly groaned, a half smile on his lips. He wished it was easier, wished that he could brush propriety aside and be honest, wished that a drink and a journal weren't all that awaited him because the pub was now the last place he wanted to be. But then they had never been easy.

"Good night, Richard." She smiled as she slowly closed the door, waiting until she was sure he had left before letting out a deep contented sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

So on a snow day what else is there to do but curl up in the warm and write (and drink lots of tea). This is coming together quite nicely and looks set to be nine, (possibly ten) chapters in total. Hope you like.

-0-0-

Isobel ran her hand through her hair, smoothing down loose waves and tucking errant strands behind her ears. "You should rest now," she whispered, leaning further over the bed and lightly patting the older man's hand.

"Who would have known that I'd survive two wars only to die like this."

"Are you in pain?" she asked quietly, sliding her chair closer to the bed to hear him. He didn't have long, maybe a few hours, his voice becoming raspier with each sentence, his body painfully slowly giving up its life, and she intended to stay there with him. "I can get you something if you are."

"It started with influenza."

She wasn't even sure if he could hear her any more, his ramblings a monologue to himself but she hoped there was some comfort in the sound of her voice.

"Mrs Crawley?" It was said with such a soft voice that she barely acknowledged it at first, probably wouldn't have had it not been for a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry."

"Do you want me to take over here? I can give him some morphine and he'll quietly slip away."

Isobel glanced back down at her patient, his lips moving, the sounds barely audible, before looking back at the nurse. "No, I'll stay. I don't think he's ready yet and he shouldn't be alone when he is. Maybe you could bring me a cup of tea later."

The nurse nodded, squeezed her shoulder lightly and walked away.

No one should die alone. Isobel believed that passionately. Reginald had been in her arms when he died, his death painful, his body thrashing, his eyes panicked, but she had held him tightly, offering quiet words of comfort. They had all been there for Lavinia, offering comfort, Matthew clinging to her hand, their presence ensuring she knew she was loved. The man before her had no one to hold him, no one to offer words of comfort, to assure him it was alright to let go. She needed to be there. Of course she knew why she was doing it, the transference of her grief obvious even to her, but in some small measure it brought her a little comfort, and eased her grief. Matthew had died instantly, the light, the joy, in his eyes gone before the two men had reached him. While she could take comfort in the knowledge he had died happy, it troubled her that there was no one to hold his hand, to reassure him. So she would do this, help ease the mans suffering, do what she failed to do for Matthew.

"I loved her with all my heart. I wish I'd told her that more."

Isobel leaned closer, her voice taking on an almost soothing quality. "I'm sure she knew. I'm sure you told her. Every time you kissed her. Whenever you held her. Somewhere up there she is waiting."

His hand gripped the bed sheet, his body becoming rigid before it flexed out and she knew that his time was close. Gently she turned his hand over, entwining their fingers as she whispered, "It's alright, George. You can let go now. Gertrude is waiting for you. Close your eyes and let go. There won't be anymore pain." A solitary tear welled in her eye as he looked up at her one last time, a small smile on his lips.

"Gertrude," he whispered, his voice now failing him too.

"I'm here George. I'll be here. You can go to Gertrude now."

As his eyelids fluttered shut one last time she followed the rise and fall of his chest, felt the life drain from his body as his hand slipped from hers. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, silent sobs racking her body for a man she barely knew, for the son she had lost, for the loss of everything she held dear.

Richard stood in the doorway, a folder open before him, but his eyes focused solely on the woman in black. He had been summoned by a nurse to give the old man an ampoule of morphine to ease his pain, instead when he arrived he found Isobel quietly sitting by the bedside. It wasn't the first time he had seen her nurse a dying patient, but it was the first time since Matthews death and it shook him in ways he couldn't explain. He found himself torn between what was best as a doctor and what was best as a friend, what was best for his patient and for his friend. In the end it hadn't mattered, the morphine would have come too late to be of any help, and the patient had slipped away in relative calm with Isobel holding his hand. As painful as it must have been for her, he couldn't imagine a better way to go than with the soft cadence of her voice in his ear and her hand, small but strong, clinging to his. He hoped she could draw strength from it too.

Isobel rose to her feet, finally, with a heavy heart, her tears under control, and gently covered his face with a sheet. Someone, and it couldn't be her, would need to prepare him, and phone the funeral directors, but for now he was at peace. Turning, she prepared to seek out another nurse but her eyes met his across the room, his face etched with concern, his eyes gazing at her in admiration. She took a sharp intake of breath, restoring her equilibrium, and weaved her way between the beds towards him.

"Mr Bailey has gone."

Richard closed the folder and nodded. "I was just coming to administer morphine." His eyes bore into hers, his head tilted to one side, asking silent questions.

"He was pain free in the end. There was no struggle, he even smiled a touch, and I think it was a release in the end. I'm going to head home if that's alright," she said, raising her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. "I'm tired."

"Of course it's alright. I'll ask one of the nurses to take care of everything." He continued to watch her, resisting the urge to voice his concerns. Despite the red eyes and tear tracks on her cheeks, she looked healthier than she had in weeks, but he knew she had to be in a hundred different kinds of pain.

"I'm alright, Richard," she whispered. "I couldn't let him die alone, no one should die alone. And before you say that someone else could have sat there, I needed to do it."

He nodded, wanting to argue that it probably wasn't the best thing to do under the circumstances, but instead found himself offering a small smile. The fact that she asked if she could go home, and admitted that she was tired, told him that she was starting to feel again. For weeks he had watched as she worked ten hour shifts, barely eating, rarely taking more than a few minutes break at a time, her skills as precise as ever, but emotionless. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

Isobel gave a light shake of her head, her fingers briefly ghosting over his arm. "Thank you, but no."

"Goodnight then, Isobel," he said, not wanting to force his attentions on her. He stepped back to allow her to pass and then, as a thought occurred to him, asked, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

Isobel took a deep breath and averted her eyes. "I think I'm going to take a few days off. Take care of some errands and start on all those things around the house that I've been putting off." In truth she needed to have some distance between her and the hospital, needed to deal with the tidal wave of emotion that the mans death had unleashed and she needed consider whether working at the hospital was really the right thing to do. None of those things she could admit to the man standing before her, to anyone, but especially him because as much as she tried to deny it she cared too much for him. If and when the time came she wanted more than his pity.

"Sounds like a busy few days. Make sure you take some time to rest too."

"You worry too much," she chided gently. "I'll see you next week, Richard." Slipping passed him she headed down the hallway to the closet, a smile tweaking at her lips as she felt his hand brush hers as he took her coat, easing her gently into it. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Isobel." He gazed down at her one last time before turning and heading back down the corridor to the ward, fearful that she might see just how much he wanted in that second to hold her. With a deep, sad sigh, he decided that as much as he would miss her a few days apart might not be such a bad idea, if only to get his feelings under control.

-0-0-

Isobel adjusted a pin at the nape of her neck, curling a strand of hair around her fingers before repining it, rubbing her fingers lightly over the area it had been scratching, before entering the dining room.

"Good morning, Mrs Crawley." She continued to lay the table, the one plate, one saucer and setting of cutlery looking lost on the expanse of white table cloth.

"Good morning, Agnes." Isobel took her seat at the end of the table, her eyes briefly scanning the headlines in the paper before discarding it again.

The maid lifted the pot and filled the cup with tea, topping it up with a little milk. "I'll fetch the toast."

Isobel carefully draped the napkin over her lap. "Agnes, there's no hurry, I'm not going to the hospital today."

"Very good, ma'am. Would you like me to change my day off and stay home?"

"No, you go and enjoy your time with your sister." The last thing she wanted was the younger woman hovering around all day. She was more than capable of taking care of herself, in fact she should probably get used to it. Matthew was gone and as kind as the offer was, she couldn't really stay in the house forever, at some point she would need to find something of her own. Maybe a small cottage with a garden, one that could be managed with just a housemaid, she mused. She also needed to find something to fill her days. Over the last few months she had thrown herself back into work but even she knew that pace was unsustainable, she needed something else, something that would keep her busy but allow her to hide whenever she needed. She wasn't ready to let anyone see her break and Richard had come close, a few minutes earlier and he would have found her in tears, body racking sobs that left her almost paralysed.

"Can I get you anything else, ma'am?" Agnes asked, watching her with a concerned look on her face.

She shook her head and offered a smile. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

"In that case, ma'am, I'll clear up the breakfast things and be on my way. I should be back about three o' clock, if you're sure that is alright."

"Yes." Isobel buttered a slice of toast. "It's a nice day but Autumn will be here before we know it. I think I might spend some time in the garden."

-0-0-

Isobel placed her basket on the floor and crossed to the sink, washing her hands and drying them on the dish cloth. Her stomach rumbled and she realised she had been working in the garden all morning and it had long since passed lunch. Opening the cupboard she searched for something to eat and came up empty. The stores were full enough, the cool box layered with left overs but her appetite had been so slight of late that nothing appealed. Coming across a small bag of sugar and some flour she suddenly had a craving for scones, crouching down she located the sultanas and placed them on the counter.

Half an hour later a batch of scones was cooking in the oven and she was mixing the batter for a sponge. There was something comforting about turning the wooden spoon, watching the mixture turn a pale yellow, allowing the fragrances of her baking to soothe her. Her arm ached but even the pain held restorative powers and she felt happier and more relaxed than she had in weeks.

When Agnes arrived home an hour later flour littered the table and the warming aroma of cake drifted from the oven. Removing her coat she made her way further into the kitchen. "You've been baking, ma'am."

Isobel dried her hands and turned to look at the counter behind her. "I think I may have gotten carried away."

Agnes glanced around the kitchen. "Maybe a little."

She gave a small smile. "I'm sure we can find them a good home."

"Yes, ma'am. Why don't I clean up and start on dinner?"

Isobel placed a hand on her stomach, realisation dawning that she had become so caught up in baking that she still hadn't eaten. "Well we have dessert."

"Plenty of it. Maybe I could take some of them over to the hospital. I dare say the food there isn't all that appetising."

"What a wonderful idea. I'm sorry I made such a mess."

Agnes discretely rolled her eyes. "It's fine, ma'am. Would you like me to bring you some tea and a scone?"

Isobel paused by the door. "Yes, that sounds lovely. I'll be in the library. No point having all these books if I never get to read them."


	6. Chapter 6

This has turned into a longer chapter than I envisioned, which may be why its taken me so long to finish it.

Chapter Six

Richard had been a doctor for over thirty years, working in a city hospital first then serving his country on the battle field before finally settling in Downton and taking on the cottage hospital. The desire to become a doctor had come with the noblest of intentions; he wanted to help people, to heal people and if somewhere in the process he discovered a medical cure then so be it. While the setting had changed, his patients had changed, the one thing that never changed was that he found himself forever drowning in paperwork, whether it be patient notes, requisition forms, prescriptions and four times a year the accounts. It was the bane of his life.

Since lunch he had been surrounded by ledgers and invoices and receipts and didn't seem to be getting anywhere fast. If anything they seemed to be in more of a mess than when he had started. A nurse had brought him a pot of tea but it had long since gone cold, and they were all somewhat scared to disturb him again. Briefly he had thought about putting it to one side and going for a walk but he would only be putting off the inevitable, so instead he persevered.

Even more frustrating was the fact Isobel was in the building and he'd had barely a minute to talk with her. Rushing in at ten o' clock she had managed to miss morning rounds and the breakfast round, and he had been too caught up with a patient to speak to her. He had glanced up briefly and found her gazing back at him but when he looked up again she was gone. If her smile had been a little forced, her demeanour a little flustered he had merely put it down to the fact she had arrived late, and then been caught up in the endless list of tasks. While he had been a little concerned not to find her there at breakfast time, there was something reassuring in the knowledge she was slowing down, taking time for herself, maybe healing a little.

"Do you ever wonder what the point is?" Isobel asked with a heavy sigh, walking in through the open door to stand before his desk, breaking into his reverie.

Richard looked up at the sound of her voice, surprised and pleased at her presence in his office, reddening slightly to be caught thinking about her. "Mrs Crawley?"

"You were somewhere else, weren't you?" Her face softened, annoyance dissipating to be replaced with bemusement, and she gave him a tender smile.

He pushed the papers aside, giving her his full attention. "Nothing for you to worry about."

Isobel rolled her eyes and moved back to the door, closing it firmly before walking back towards him. "You know you can talk to me about anything, Richard. I hope you know you can trust me."

"I do," he acknowledged sincerely. "And it works both ways."

She shook her head, bemused that he constantly felt the need to reassure her and to offer to be her shoulder to lean on. If anything the words were obsolete, everything he had done since Matthew's death reaffirmed his consideration for her. There wasn't a day that went by that she didn't thank god for his presence in her life, for his strength when she had none, for the way he allowed her to walk in and out of his life at will. All of which she could not, and would not, tell him, because then she would have to admit that she was weak, and he could never know that. Settling herself in the visitors chair, she asked pointedly, "Is it a patient?"

"No. It would probably be easier if it was." He waved his hands across the desk, indicating the chaos. "I just have a few long nights a head of me." He let out a deep sigh in consternation. For some inexplicable reason he felt he could tell her anything and she would listen. She had that effect on him, always had. "As you are probably aware as part of the conditions of the hospital annuity, I have to produce financial records every quarter. My accounting skills unfortunately are not on a par with my medical skills. So I tend to procrastinate and now I am a little behind."

"Can I help?"

"No, I just need to concentrate and stop procrastinating." He rose to his feet, moving around the desk, deciding he would rather talk to her than deal with the stack of unpaid bills on his desk. He perched on the front of the desk, leaning forward slightly towards her as he spoke, "Do I ever wonder what the point of what is?"

"I didn't think you heard that," she replied with the slightest hint of embarrassment.

He shrugged. "As a doctor I hear everything and filter out what is and isn't important." What he didn't add was that everything she said to him was important. "You're avoiding the question, Isobel."

She let out a deep sigh. "Everything. The Hospital. Life." It was a little melodramatic even for her, but the day had started with her being forced to confront her grief and she had found herself wondering if she would ever feel happy again.

He furrowed his brow, trying to think what had happened during the day to put her in such a melancholy mood, and coming up empty. "I find it frustrating at times, but I'm not sure I ever get quite to the point of wondering."

"I'm supposed to have dinner at the house tonight."

A small wry smile formed on his lips. "Are you not feeling up to doing battle with the old lady?"

Isobel folded her hands in her lap, ducking her head briefly before lifting her head to meet his eyes. "That's just it, we don't do battle anymore. The seven of us sit around making pleasant conversation. I can't tell you how many conversations we've had about the weather and harvest festival and tradition. But no one says anything to upset anyone else, no one expresses an opinion about anything, and god forbid we should mention Matthew or Sybil."

"Perhaps they don't think you're ready, or maybe Mary isn't. They might just be giving you time." He couldn't imagine what it was like for any of them, losing two people you loved so deeply in such a short space of time but it had to be worst for Mary and Tom, losing your soul mate and knowing that you'd spend the rest of your days without them, and for Isobel losing her only child. His eyes drifted to Isobel. If he was to lose her he'd be . . . A deep well of overwhelming loneliness pooled in his stomach and he turned away.

"Mary and I talk about Matthew all the time. That's the stupid thing. She wants to know all about him as a little boy, and I need to talk about him. I don't want to forget his voice or his face or that silly little flop of hair."

"You could always feign illness," Richard innocently suggested.

"I have done that rather a lot of late, and lied about being needed here." She pulled a face at her admittance. "But Mary called me personally and asked me to go."

"You'll get to see Edward."

A smile lit up her face, a warm genuine one that reached her eyes. "Yes, there is that."

They sat in relative silence for a few moments as he watched her indulge in thoughts of her grandchild, happy and relaxed for once. The transformation was immediate and he knew that her thoughts had drifted to Matthew. "Have you told Mary that you are thinking of leaving Crawley House?" he asked, trying to conceal the huge sadness which he felt at the idea, but wanting to draw her away from dwelling on her son. They had been sharing a pot of tea and some of her home made cakes when she had tentatively asked what he thought of Ripon. It was only when he had feigned ignorance that she had raised the possibility of moving there. He had been floored and he was pretty sure his heart had stopped for a moment, but he had tried to be supportive, reeling of the list of possibilities for her in a bigger community.

"No. And it seems Matthew may have foreseen that I might consider it."

Richard leaned forward from his position on the desk, his hands clasped before him, maintaining the intimacy of their conversation. "Matthew?"

"Yes. Mr Murray came to see me this morning before I came to work."

It was all starting to make sense, the despondency with which she asked the question, her need to talk of Matthew, the fact she had sought him out in his office. "May I ask what he wanted or is it too private?"

Isobel glanced down at her hands and back up at him, her eyes almost glistening and he knew then she was, as always, holding onto her feelings by a fine thread.

"You don't have to tell me. But if it helps. If I can help in any way."

"He's been tying up Matthews estate. And while it's complicated, my darling son thought of everything. He was a solicitor so he drew up all these documents and a will and legal agreements, and appointed trustees and executors and made his wishes very clear. He had some money put away, quite a lot of savings actually, probably from all those years he lived at home and I indulged him. And there is Matthew's share in the estate. That damn car. And Crawley House. I wasn't aware that when he invested in the estate he bought the House." She trailed off and stared towards the window. "Mary will manage Edward's share of the estate until he reaches age. He trusted her to do the right thing, and Tom will make sure they move forwards, carry on making Downton secure for Sybil and Edward. And Mary inherits the money, and shares and everything else. And I get . . . well . . Crawley House. My darling boy has bequeathed me a house." It shouldn't have been that way, she should have been the one to leave him a home, to provide for him and his family. Fresh tears welled in her eyes.

"So you have no reason to leave." A sudden wave of happiness surged through him, inappropriate under the circumstances but he couldn't quell it.

Her eyes met his, crinkling not from unshed tears but amusement. "You didn't really want me to go, did you?"

It was Richard's turn to look away. "I want you to do whatever makes you happy." He was only aware that she had risen when he felt her hand cover his, looked up to find her standing over him, gazing down at him fondly.

"But you would prefer that I stay."

He nodded, unwillingly to admit how much he wanted her to stay, instead settling for something more benign. "Of course. I don't have that many good friends in the village either." He regretted it the instant the words left his mouth and her face fell, his regret overshadowing the fact that she seemed saddened by the fact he considered her just a good friend.

"I should go," she announced, her hand slipping from his, her arms folding across her body as she backed away. "I probably won't be in for the next few days. I have a few things to sort out."

"Of course." It wasn't usual. She seemed to fall into a familiar pattern, almost breaking, her emotions leading her to confide in him, and then she would disappear for days at a time, reassembling herself into the Isobel she thought the world needed to see. The longer she stayed away, the closer he knew she was getting to the breaking point when she wouldn't be able to keep her emotions in check and where she could start healing. He gave her a small smile, his face falling when he caught the expression on her face. "Have I upset you?"

She shook her head, regarding him kindly, suddenly feeling almost silly for her reaction. They were friends, the closest of friends and she valued that beyond compare, and if, from time to time, she considered the possibility that maybe they could be more, then maybe she shouldn't have rejected him when she had the chance. The poor man deserved more. "Of course not. Today has been a long day and you have accounts to complete. And I need to think a little on what I'm going to do. I'll see you soon. Good night Richard."

"Good night Isobel." He watched her walk out of his office, her head held high, her footsteps made with purpose and he knew then that he had upset her, maybe added to her worries, and he mentally berated himself.

-0-0-

"It's beautiful," Richard said quietly, trying not to startle her, his eyes drawn not to the painting but the woman he had come to see. When he had knocked on her door he had been slightly dismayed when there was no answer, his heart lifting when he caught sight of her in the garden.

Isobel turned and looked up at him, her cheeks crimson flushed, her hand moving to her hair, woven in a loosen braid over her shoulder. It had been a spontaneous decision to paint when she had risen to the sun high in the sky and she had been so caught up that she had yet to prepare for unexpected visitors. "That's kind of you to say but I am quite the amateur."

"Isn't the beauty of art in the eye of the beholder?"

"You may have it when it's finished if you really like it," she offered quietly, flushing again under the intensity of his gaze.

"I do, very much. But I couldn't possibly. You have already bestowed some quite substantial flower arrangements on the hospital, and the fruit cake was quite delicious."

Isobel nodded, unconsciously pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "Oh dear. I am becoming quite the little old lady aren't I."

"Stay clear of the knitting and you'll be fine," he laughed.

She turned an even rosier pink.

"Too late?"

"I genuinely thought if I kept busy. . ." she trailed off as she rose to her feet. While the hospital kept her busy, there were times she needed to keep her distance, and she wasn't ready yet to travel to Ripon or York to work with her ladies, that left her with a long list of pursuits she could embark on at home. She had exhausted them in a very short space of time and none of them kept her mind off Matthew or made her feel as alive as when she was nursing. "Still my offer stands, Richard, the watercolour is yours if you really like it."

"Thank you, Isobel." As she began to gather the paints and brushes he picked up the easel, careful not to disturb the wet paint. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"No, no, I was just thinking of making some tea. Would you like some?" Lifting up her basket and stool she headed across the grass towards the house.

Richard shook his head, following closely behind. "I reluctantly can't. I have to set Timmy Jones leg."

"Climbing trees again?" she enquired with a grin.

"He's getting quite adept at getting up, it's the dismount that's the problem," he offered with a chuckle. "Anyway the reason I called is that I find myself a nurse short tomorrow and I was wondering whether you had some time to give us a hand. It needn't be a full shift, really through the bed changes and lunch would help, maybe afternoon rounds." It had been two weeks since she had last set foot in his office, and except for a fleeting view across the church, he hadn't seen her since. While he didn't want to pressurise her to return, the longer she stayed away the more he worried she wouldn't ever return, and it would be his fault. "Of course if you have plans I wouldn't . . .".

"No, I'd like to." She opened the door and made her way over to the bureau. "If you want to put it down just there, I'll move it later when it's dry."

"I can just take it to wherever you need it."

She knew she should argue but some battles she had found of late really weren't worth the energy. "In the library then, please." It was only as he headed down the hallway that she remembered but it was too late and he had already opened the door.

Richard glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the desk, or at least the pile of books and papers that he assumed were concealing the desk. Isobel was a neat, precise, organised to the point of distraction woman, but as he took note of the mess he realised that his worst fears were being confirmed.

"I've been reading a lot of late," she said coming up behind him. Her eyes glanced in the direction of the book shelves. "Apparently I've exhausted my library. I really should let Agnes come in here and clean but I didn't want things to get muddled and I like to be able to find things." Unconsciously she ran a hand through her hair. "You must think me terribly disorganised."

"Not at all, Isobel. Am I to take it that you are still not sleeping?"

"Richard," she warned half-heartedly, knowing where he was going. "I have discovered that I require only a few hours a night. I am making the most of all the extra time I have." The truth of the matter was that she awoke frequently, drenched in perspiration, heart racing, and fearful of returning to her nightmares she roamed the house, her thoughts becoming ever more depressing. Reading distracted her for brief spells and the rest of the time she sat watching night turn to day.

"If it is a few hours of uninterrupted good sleep then yes, but, and I say this as a friend, you don't look like someone who is getting good sleep."

She shrugged nonchalantly, before changing the subject. "What do you think about my asking Moseley to come back?"

"Why are you asking me?" A deep vee formed in the centre of his brow as he tried to follow her train of thought.

"You worry constantly. I thought you might approve of my having a man in the house."

"And your reputation?"

"My reputation?" She chuckled lightly. "You don't honestly think. . ." The chuckle became a giggle. ". . . people would think Moseley and I? Really Richard."

His lips tweaked up into a wide smile.

"We'll it's not that funny."

"You're laughing."

She stopped abruptly and smiled back at him. "I haven't done that in a while, have I?"

Richard shook his head. "It's reassuring to see."

They stood gazing at each other, neither wanting to ruin the moment with pursuing conversation, allowing the brief interlude of happiness to linger.

"Hello?" came a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Mary. I'm sorry," she said, "I forgot they were coming to see me. I'll be there tomorrow at nine, I promise, I'll even stay through rounds." She took one step towards the door before turning back and reaching up on tip toe to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"Isobel." His fingers gently stroked the curve of his cheek where her lips had all too briefly brushed and he took a deep centring breath to dispel the familiar wave of emotion he felt when she was close. "Isobel," he repeated but she was gone.

"Coming dear."

Richard followed her out of the door and down the hallway, his step faltering as he caught sight of Isobel, baby cradled in her arms, looking radiant and happy.

"Good day, doctor," Mary said as she raised her gaze from her son. One eyebrow raised she continued to appraise him, a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue.

"Good day, Lady Mary. It's good to see you out and about."

"I promised Isobel that we would pay her a visit. He likes to visit with Granny. And the fresh air does both of us good."

He nodded, tempted to suggest that granny liked the visit too. "Well I need to get back to the hospital and set that leg. I'll see you tomorrow, Isobel," he said, giving her a small smile.

"Good afternoon, Richard." Briefly her eyes met his warmly before she returned her attention to the child in her arms.

"Isobel?" Mary asked, a teasing smile on her lips as the doctor slipped past them and headed down the path. "Is there something you wish to share?"

Isobel inwardly groaned, leaning in to kiss the soft downy hair of her grandson before glancing up at her daughter in law. "We're friends, we have been for years. We have a great deal in common and he has been very kind and considerate when I needed it most. It's not what you think." In truth friendship barely described what the two of them had but she wasn't ready to redefine their relationship and certainly she had no intention of sharing her thoughts with anyone else when she couldn't even raise the subject with the man in question.

"He's a good man. You are both free to court."

She shook her head. "While I may be free I am not ready or in any frame of mind to burden anyone."

"You don't always get to choose who you fall in love with, or when for that matter. And sometimes, if its right, you just have to embrace it," Mary announced, fussing over her child. Sensing that Isobel wasn't going to open up or admit anything, Mary continued. "We can't stay too long, maybe long enough to take tea. I promised Granny a visit too, and the nurse doesn't like it if we upset his routine."

"Please, excuse my manners, come through to the sitting room and I'll have Agnes bring us some tea. You can tell me all the new things this little angel is doing."

Mary rolled her eyes as she followed her down the corridor. She would of course tell granny Isobel whatever she wanted but the chances of her mother-in-law actually hearing any of it when Edward was in her arms was slim to nothing. He had, quite simply, brought her back from the brink of despair as she grieved her husband, a part of Matthew living on, a whole new world open to her through her sons eyes. A little stronger herself, she now hoped that building a relationship between granny and grandson would help Isobel too, or at least that was what she had hoped until she found the doctor there. Isobel had been smiling and flushed as she appeared from the study, the doctor a little embarrassed to be discovered. Mary allowed a small grin to crinkle at her lips at the prospect that maybe there was more than one person in Isobel's life that would lift her from the devastation of her loss. While she wouldn't share it with the rest of the family, the family not known for discretion, and who liked to interfere, Mary would herself encourage it, not least because she didn't want Edward to lose his granny, but because if Matthews presence in her life had taught her anything, it was that you grab happiness wherever you can.

"Are you coming, Mary?"

She nodded, offering a wider smile, banishing her thoughts for a moment or two and crossing the sitting room.


	7. Chapter 7

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After taking a short break from writing, imposed by my unco-operative muse, I'm going to try and post the last four chapters as soon as I can. Thank you for all the lovely comments and begging messages. I'm sorry it's taken so long but I hope I have done the characters justice.

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Chapter Seven

The dressing would need changing in a day or so but he thought one of the nurses might be better suited to dealing with the old woman. More than anything she wanted someone to talk to, someone to check in on her and he barely had enough time for his work as it was. Agnes was rather patient, he mused, and she would appreciate a few hours away from the hospital. He made a note to seek her out when he got back and suggest it.

"One of these days, Richard, you are going to walk into a wall, or get mown down by a horse and trap."

He blinked twice, trying to focus on where the voice was coming from, acknowledging that for once it wasn't in his head. Turning slightly, he came face to face with its owner. "Good day, Isobel."

She smiled weakly. "You need to pay more attention when you're walking down the middle of the road."

"I need more hours in the day. I have far too much to think about and not enough time."

Pursing her lips nervously, she studied him for a few minutes, "I was wondering, hoping really, that you might have a few minutes. There's something I would like to discuss with you."

"That sounds serious," he replied, suddenly concerned. There was something in her voice that made him think the worst, and the fact her eyes refused to meet his and he hadn't seen her in days, meant the chances of it being something as benign as the hospital were slim. He held out his arm, waiting for her to take it. "Of course, anytime. Please, let me walk you home."

She shook her head, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth hesitantly, not wanting to do what she needed to do in her own home, not least for fear she would chicken out again. "May we talk in your office?"

The nervous tightening in his stomach intensified but he nodded. "As you wish."

They walked in companionable silence along the street, conscious of the people around them, and through the gate to the small cottage hospital. The corridors were relatively empty at that time of day and he paused only once to sign a patients chart before leading her into his office. Discarding his coat and hat, he placed his bag on the desk before moving a stack of papers out of the way, prolonging the moment she dropped the bombshell that he was sure was about to follow.

"Would you like some tea?" At the shake of her head, he continued, "Please take a seat."

She remained on her feet, edging slowly across the room, her eyes drifting from one thing to another, and he knew then that whatever she said would include a reprimand.

Clasping her hands in front of her, Isobel momentarily studied the floor before lifting her head almost defiantly to look at him. "I'm fine. I haven't been in the hospital because I've been spending time with Mary and Edward."

"That's good," he chanced, his tone warm despite the apprehension coursing through his body.

"It is. I have to be needed, Richard, and I am. Who would have imagined that someone so small could need so much. And I've been sorting through Matthews belongings," she continued, the catch in her voice not missed by him. "Edward will be able to read all about his fathers exploits at school when he is ready."

Richard had to look away. He knew what was coming and he wasn't ready for it. While she had come and gone as it suited her over the months, he knew she was coming back, knew her absences meant she was healing. He wanted her to heal but until that moment he hadn't considered the possibility that working through her grief would eventually mean she would again abandon him. He let out a deep sad sigh at the thought, one hand instinctively pressing against his chest.

"I may not be sleeping as much as I did before, and I may not have regained my appetite fully but I feel better than I have in months." She paused when he still refused to look at her and decided there was no better time. "So you can stop interfering."

His head snapped round of its own accord, shocked by the anger in her tone.

"No more asking Moseley how I am doing. The poor man is very loyal and very worried, the last thing he needs is you musing about my pallor or whether I'm leaving the house. And Robert? Whatever made you think he might have the slightest inclination as to how I might be coping?"

Richard opened his mouth to speak. "I was . . ."

"Yes, worried, I know. I'm telling you here and now that you can stop worrying. As you can see I'm fine."

He was truly too shocked to argue. They had fought before, two people who were so passionate about their beliefs could hardly avoid defending those beliefs, but there was real anger and coolness in her eyes, and he had never been the recipient of that before. He could protest that as her friend he had every right to worry, or maybe defend his right as her physician to ask after her, but he was too stunned to offer either by way of explanation. "If that's what you want."

Isobel nodded mutely.

"Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, leaning back against his desk, putting physical distance between them, mirroring the sudden emotional distance he felt from her.

"Yes." Though said quietly there was determination behind her words. "I think it's time I . . . "

"You know I'll do whatever you want."

Her eyes studied the floor, tracing the pattern in the rug, avoiding the sincerity in his eyes. When he had proposed she had initially thought he was lonely, looking for someone to spend his retirement with and that she was the obvious choice. The ease with which he accepted her gentle brush off seemingly confirmed it, until her world fell apart, and he emerged as the one person who truly cared enough to accept who she had become. He had never mentioned marriage again, probably never would, but it didn't stop her wondering if he loved her. Finally, she lifted her head and looked directly at him. "I wish you would just leave me alone."

His jaw gaped open as he stared back at her.

"Every time I turn round you're there waiting for me to break. Will you not be satisfied until I'm in pieces?"

"Isobel, that's not it at all," he protested. "The last thing I would ever want is for your grief to overwhelm you. But I need you to know that if everything becomes too much that someone is here for you, to listen, to act as a sounding board for your anger, to offer more than a long list of charity engagements to keep you occupied."

"And that someone has to be you?" she asked, her anger dissipating at the sincerity in his voice.

He shook his head, fearful he had stepped over the mark.

"Because I have spent every day since his death trying not to break in front of you."

Richard furrowed his brow. "But why?" It made little sense that she would fight so hard not to break before him, the one man who knew how to help her.

And that was the crux of it. Why had she tried so hard to hide her grief, to be strong in front of him when there were times all she wanted to do was fall into his arms. "Because that's the way it's supposed to be," she offered half-heartedly, ignoring the truth.

"Then that's the way it will be." He turned, intent on moving back around the desk but stopped, giving her a look of dismay. "But I don't think it's worthy of our friendship. And," he started, feeling bolder than he ever had around her. "I have to ask people how you are because all you ever say is that you're fine, and I know there is no earthly way you can be fine."

"Of course I'm not fine," she snapped, her composure failing, as she lost herself in the adoration in his eyes. "Matthew is dead."

He let the words hang between them, echoing in the silence of the room.

"Matthew is dead. My Matthew is dead." Somewhere deep inside of her the dam broke. Saying the words out loud to him gave it a finality she had been trying to ignore. For weeks she had been boxing up his belongings, relegating the bad memories to a corner of her mind, half pretending that he had gone away rather than focusing on the fact he was never coming back. And now, without warning, the stark reality was upon her and Richard was standing before her, his eyes full of love and compassion. "Oh my god, my dear darling boy is dead."

He had waited for the moment, part in trepidation, part in anticipation, but when it cam he had been thoroughly unprepared. How could he be. While he knew she would break, hoped she would find her way to him, he didn't know when, hadn't fully contemplated how he would deal with it.

"Richard," she half sobbed, half gasped. "He's not coming back."

"No, he's not," he said quietly. How many times had he told someone their loved one was gone, he had lost count, but this was different, he shared her pain because he loved her.

"No."

He hesitated, even more unsure of what she wanted from him. The first tear spilled onto her cheek and he suddenly didn't care what she wanted, only that she needed comforting. Crossing the room, he locked the door with a loud click against the silence of the office, before returning to her, his arms open wide. When she didn't move he pulled her against his chest and held her almost timidly, his hands high on her back, ignoring the way she struggled against him. He couldn't let her go, the keening almost breaking his heart, as he waited her out, her resistance finally waning and she collapsed against him.

"I miss him so much. There would be days when I wouldn't see him but he would drop me a note, and I knew where he was. And he used to come by for tea whenever he could. He was the only person who didn't think me completely foolish for wanting to help those women."

She continued to mumble against his chest, choking sobs dampening his waistcoat as she delivered a loving monologue about the boy she had single handedly raised, her desperate need to talk about her son finally breaking through her defences.

"He was so excited about being a father. I hadn't seen him that happy since the day he married Mary." Her thoughts drifted to that day, in the hospital as she told him mother and baby were both well. He had engulfed her in his arms, completely besotted by his child even before meeting him. An hour later he had been dead. Fresh sobs racked her body and she gripped his waistcoat, holding on tightly as if he too would disappear.

"What is the point of any of it anymore?"

Richard closed his eyes, his own emotions as close to the surface as he had allowed them since it happened. He wanted so very much to tell her how much she had to live for, that Edward was the point, but he remained silent, allowing her to voice the pain she had been concealing for so long. Saying it out loud would help he knew. He allowed his body to relax a little as she pulled him closer; one hand slipped to the small of her back as the other moved to her hair, no longer timid in his comforting.

"I haven't slept in months. I wander that damn house trying to tire myself out and I am tired, so very tired, so very very tired and yet as soon as I do fall asleep I wake up again."

Gently, he stroked her hair, breathing in the lemony scent of her shampoo, whispering a mantra of soothing words that she could not hear.

"Nothing gives me satisfaction anymore. Not the hospital, not the painting or the baking." She let out a sad sigh. "And the poor wee baby. He'll grow up without a father, or Mary will meet someone else and then he'll be gone from my life too."

"Mary would never do that to you," he said firmly, his voice rising slightly in volume at the absurdity of such a notion.

"Richard, I feel so alone, always so alone. It's so much worse than when Reginald died. He'd lived a life, we'd shared so much together but in a way it was a blessing, he'd been so ill, in so much pain that it was a relief that it was over. But Matthew had so much more to live for. I wanted to see him raise his son, to have so many more children. I couldn't you see."

"You're not alone," he whispered, trying to break through her tears, to stop the rambling. "Isobel, please let me give you something, once you get some sleep you'll feel better. It won't go away but you'll be able to fight it."

She shook her head as the sobbing intensified. "Why would I want to make it better?"

Softly he tugged her head back, forcing her to look at him. For me, he wanted to say. Because I'm here and while I can't bring him back I can be there, I can help you find a reason to keep on living. Except that wasn't what he found himself saying. "This isn't what Matthew would have wanted."

"I'm so sick of being what everyone expects me to be. Forcing myself to smile at banality and pretending that I'm not grieving as much as Mary. That I don't have the same right as she does to mourn him still. It's the upper class way, you know, stiff upper lip and all that. Well I'm just a doctors daughter from Manchester. I want to fall apart. I want to curl up in a ball and cry. I want to question why God took my boy. They have to let me do that."

He felt guilty, guilty for wanting to make it better for her, guilty that he couldn't. Without thinking, he held her more tightly, his hand catching on her pins as he caressed her scalp. His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to ignore the sudden current of love that swept through his body.

"I stand in that room sometimes, seeing his body broken and bleeding, and then I walk down the corridor and I can see him, practically running to his family, so happy. And he was in the men's ward after the Somme. . ." She took a deep steadying breath. "Do you remember the first time you went swimming, that feeling when you flailed your arms as you sank deeper under water? Trying desperately to reach the surface. That's how I feel, except I'm not flailing, I'm drowning. Drowning in grief, and I can't reach the surface. I kick and I scream and the water is still over my head. And part of me wants to drown because then I'd be with my baby."

"I know you won't believe me. But it will get easier." Drowning meant dying and he wasn't ready to acknowledge that she would rather die than fight to live. He had to get her to believe it would get easier.

"How would you know?" she asked, choking back another sob and looking up at him, her eyes wide, her expression one of hope.

"Because it has to. I can't believe there is a purpose for you to suffer like this for eternity."

Isobel considered his words, the simplicity of his statement coming she knew from his heart. "Then maybe I shall hold on to that thought, will it to be true too." Her eyes dropped back to his shirt, now almost transparent from her tears and she slackened her grip.  
Suddenly she pulled back, as if remembering herself, her hand pressed firmly against his chest as she put distance between them. "I'm so sorry Richard," she said. "I. . ."

"You don't. . ."

"I must go." She started to move backwards, almost tripping as she tried to get away from him, her hand swatting against her eyes. "I . . . Good night, Richard."

She was gone before he had chance to reply, to offer his own bidding. He moved towards the door to go after her, but stopped himself, finding himself standing in the middle of his office, his clothes damp from her tears, his arms now empty. How could he go after her? What would people think? What more could he say? The room began to move around him and he sank into the visitor chair as he tried to regain his balance. She as much as told him to leave her alone and however much it pained him, he would respect her wishes. And then she had broken down; the grief he knew she was suppressing finally rising to the surface. He couldn't help but resonate on the fact the one thing he had hoped for for months had finally happened. As he sat trying to ignore the pain in his chest, and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness, he had to acknowledge the real prospect that in the process she might finally walk away from the hospital and from him.

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	8. Chapter 8

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This is the chapter I wrote first, the one upon which the whole story has been written, I hope you like it as much as I loved writing it.

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Chapter Eight

Richard walked purposefully along the corridor and into the ward, his footsteps faltering as he caught sight of her, his stethoscope around her neck, her fingers lightly pressed against the patients wrist. His purpose forgotten he found himself standing, staring at her. She looked as she always had, her hair neatly pinned, her black attire barely creased and for a moment it was hard to reconcile the woman before him and the woman who had practically ran from the building the previous evening. The fact that she was even in the hospital at all was a surprise. While he had been intent on carrying out rounds, he now found himself torn between carrying on as if nothing had transpired between them or leaving, allowing her to continue her work without his presence, which had clearly become somewhat of a consternation to her. In the end he chose the latter, the rapid beating of his heart an all too evident indication that his emotions were running away with him.

"Nurse, Mrs Crawley clearly has everything under control so I think we might leave rounds until after lunch. Should you need me, I will be in my office," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his tone leaving the nurse under no illusions that it would be better if he was not needed. With one final glance and a sad sigh, he turned and walked back through of the door, intent on hiding out for a while.

Isobel glanced up from her patient, her eyes falling on the doctor as he disappeared out of the door. "Oh damn," she muttered under her breath, allowing her eyes to flutter shut as she briefly allowed her thoughts to drift to the doctor.

"Is everything alright, Mrs Crawley?" The patient asked, somewhat concerned in her change of demeanour, the stethoscope still pressed to his chest, her fingers digging into his wrist.

She feigned a small smile, opening her eyes to look at him. "Everything is fine. You are fine. The crackling has gone and the chest is clear," she offered, patting his arm. "Another day or so's rest and you will be back to your old self." Her doctor she feared would take considerably longer to work his way back to being fine. "I, on the other hand, have to deal with a rather frustrating headache."

"Thank you."

Isobel nodded perfunctorily to the patient as she crossed the room. "Is Doctor Clarkson still in the hospital?" she asked the nurse, fully expecting her to reply that he had left the building.

"Yes, ma'am. He should be in his office," the young woman replied, nibbling her lip nervously. "But I got the impression he didn't want to be disturbed."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did he now? Well the problem with the good doctor is that if he doesn't get disturbed he has a tendency to stay here day and night." Without a bye or leave Isobel headed down the corridor, her heels clicking rhythmically against the tile, her hands clenching at her sides as she contemplated the conversation that was ahead of her. There were only two explanations for his behaviour - He was extremely busy or he was avoiding her. Considering their discussion the latter seemed the most likely, that and the fact the hospital was filled to less than half it's capacity. Usually hiding in his office was a good ploy but on this occasion one that wouldn't prove fruitful; she couldn't let him avoid her and rudeness was not something she had ever seen exemplified by him. They needed to talk and putting it off would only make everything more difficult. Firmly, she rapped on the door, waiting a full minute before she pushed open the door.

Richard scrambled to his feet, prepared to yell at whoever had barged into his room. At the sight of her, he inwardly groaned, gripping the desk for support. "Mrs Crawley, did you need something?" His tone, he noted, was professional if a little clipped, but the last thing he had expected was for her to seek him out.

"Richard," she said by way of greeting, closing the door behind her and standing with her back against it.

They had come to this, he mused, a desk and door their only protection from each other. His grip tightened as she continued to stare at him wide eyed from across the room, the silence becoming more drawn out as neither knew where to start. It was better he supposed than a long drawn out fight. Finally, he sank into his chair, his eyes flickering shut as he tried to form a sentence, deciding in the end to say what had been bothering him since she had left the previous night. "I'm not so sure that its a good idea for you to be working here anymore."

"You don't want me in your hospital any longer?" Isobel asked, her tone laced with confusion and dejection, her eyes widening. She had expected him to ask how she was, or to act as though nothing had transpired between them, what she hadn't anticipated was that her tantrum would finally have him pushing her away.

He opened his eyes to look at her once more. "That's not what I said, Mrs Crawley."

"Isobel. You call me Isobel when we're alone." Part of her wanted to stamp her foot and tell him that nothing had changed but maybe for him everything had and she couldn't bear that thought. "We promised we wouldn't hide behind titles again."

"How can I not after last night?"

"How can you after last evening?" she pleaded.

He didn't want to fight, didn't want to be the cause of her sadness again. "What I meant is that being here makes you sad. I think maybe there are too many memories. Perhaps it's time to take up an occupation that isn't so closely tied to the family." He paused briefly because he was very close to honesty and the nature of their relationship seemed to falter whenever one or other allowed their emotions to rise to the surface, but they couldn't go on the way they had. "Maybe being around me isn't good for you."

"And if I want to stay? If my work here is what I need?" she asked, finally putting a little distance between herself and the door.

"I don't know, truly I don't. Maybe I can keep out of your way or something." Absently he ran his fingers through his hair, his hand rubbing his face as he considered what he was saying, how much of a sacrifice he would be making for her happiness.

She looked truly mortified at his statement. "Keep out of my way?"

He was really terribly bad at dealing with such situations, which may have been at the crux of why he had never married. "I think my presence is only serving to make the situation worse." His hand slid from his face and he found himself gazing across the room into her sad, dark eyes, her pain clearly etched across her beautiful face.

"How can you say that?" she asked timidly. "Worse? My son died on what should have been the happiest day of his life. All I have left in this world is that darling little boy . . ."

"I don't mean to upset you. That's not what I . . ." he trailed off as he rose quickly to his feet and moved around the desk. Without the barrier between them he no longer knew what to do. He couldn't really go to her and take her hand, comforting her and it would seem strange for him to retake his seat. He settled for leaning back against the desk, his hands reaching back to hold the wooden edge.

Isobel raised a hand to stop him. "For months you have allowed me to work here, to vent, to come and go from your life at will. Never once have you asked for anything in return. And I have never really offered thanks."

"What else was I supposed to do? You were grieving, trying to work through your pain in your own way, and refusing to let anyone help. I consider us to be friends, good friends. The very least I could do is extend to you the full branch of friendship when maybe you felt the family could not offer you the solace you needed."

She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth and looked almost ready to cry. "You were just doing your duty," she stated rather than asked.

He wanted to take her in his arms, wipe away her tears and tell her that he loved her, that he wanted to be that man for her, that friendship was a poor substitute for making her his wife, but these were words that could never be spoken. "No."

She glanced up at him, briefly locking eyes with him before glancing away. "I have never told the family any of what I told you last night. There is no one on this earth that I can, or would open up to like I did last evening."

"Then I am honoured," he said simply, momentarily stunned by her admittance. It wasn't so much that she hadn't shared her pain with the family that made his heart beat a little faster more so that she felt he was the one she could talk too.

" I fear I may have burdened you more than honoured you." A small nervous laugh escaped her lips.

"It is a burden I will willingly shoulder."

"In truth I was somewhat embarrassed. I have been bottling so much of what has been going through my mind of late that once the flood gate opened I could not hold back."

"Is that not what I am here for?" he asked, indicating the visitors chair, hoping that they were finally going to talk and she would let him help. "Would you not rather sit?"

"I fear with proximity may come another breakdown of emotions." She hovered in the middle of the room, the door no longer supporting her tiny frame, her body leaning unconsciously towards him.

He nodded in understanding.

"There are only so many times I can break down in tears and tell you how much I hate my life before you will look at me with a new perspective."

"I can assure you, my dear Isobel, that there are an infinite number of times before I will see you as anything less than the brave, strong formidable woman that I know."

She laughed mirthlessly. "I am grief stricken, I am dazed and exhausted and quite frankly I wonder how I make it through the day most days. The woman you know is no longer here." Her arms folded across her body, protecting herself from the honesty of her words.

"Then maybe that is my role in your life. To make sure you find her again."

"That is an impossibly long and arduous role for you to take on. I certainly would forgive you for wanting to step back from our relationship, to seek out someone who gives you so much more in return." Forgive, yes, want you to, no, she thought.

Richard turned away, his eyes drifting to the grey sky behind the window.

"Except I fear you do not want someone else," Isobel announced, her voice quivering as she spoke.

"You prevented me from making a fool of myself once before. I promised myself that you would never need to do that again," Richard replied, choosing his words carefully, for fear she would bury her grief and dissolve their friendship on the spot.

"You have never been a fool to me. I . . ." she hesitated, debating what she was about to say and how their roles had changed. "You once asked if I had considered marriage again and I somewhat piously told you that I loved the life I had, that friendship was enough. Then my life fell apart."

"We don't need to talk about this now." The last thing he could take was her gently pushing him away again; better that they focus on dealing with her grief and rebuilding the life she had.

"I ran last night not from embarrassment, well maybe a little," she admitted with a smile, "but also because I wanted so very badly to throw myself into your arms and have you hold me and make it better. It seemed rather irrational at the time." She wasn't sure who she was kidding, but irrational was the last thing it was. "You have something to say?" she asked at the first hint of a smile on his lips.

The smile widened, as he freely admitted, "Anytime you want me to hold you and offer comfort, you need only ask."

She shook her head, comfortable finally in the direction of their conversation. "Now?"

"If that is what you need."

"There is a gaping distance between needing and wanting. I. . . That is to say. . . Please don't think me girlish or . . ." Her cheeks tinged pink as she began to form the words in her head.

"If you don't say it I will think that you have something truly terrible to reveal." Letting go of the desk his body edged forward, waiting expectantly for her admittance.

Isobel finally settled on the visitors chair, no longer scared of ruining their friendship, and looked up at him, the sincerity in her expression forcing him to gaze down at her.

"Please. Anything."

"I don't know whether it's a need, a want, or frankly just a reaction to everything that's happened," she offered succinctly.

"Would any of those things be bad or worse?"

She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "If it is just a reaction, then yes, there could be nothing worse. Maybe even a need would be bad, but wanting, now that is something else. That would imply I have the ability to feel again."

"To love again?" he asked hopefully.

"I think maybe I have loved a lot longer than I realised, Richard." And that was a realisation she had come to as an image of him flickered behind her eyelids moments before she drifted off to sleep. In all the months since Matthews death, she had been thinking about him, whether it was in anticipation of seeing him at the hospital, devising excuses why she couldn't work with him for days at a time, or in the moments when there seemed to be hope in her future. It was entirely possible that she had harboured feelings long before that, but in trying so desperately to keep him at arms length, she realised that the only place she wanted to be was in his arms.

"Now I feel like I have taken advantage."

"The one thing you have never done is take advantage, my dear sweet Richard." Reaching forward she took his hand. "I fear it is I who have taken advantage. But that is about to change."

Richard glanced at their hands and back to her face, a sudden inexplicable wave of happiness surging through his veins. "I think I would miss you greatly if there is to suddenly be a change in the nature of our relationship."

"Have dinner with me this evening." It was terribly forward of her but she don't much care.

Richard opened his mouth to speak, fully set to argue that it was not a good idea. He would protest that for the good of their friendship it was better to walk a fine line. "I'm not sure I can make it," he offered instead, avoiding her gaze as the lie tripped from his tongue. "I have rather a lot of work here."

Isobel gave him a wry smile, silence filling the gap as she waited for him to finally look up and meet her eyes. When he did so, he found her studying him, one eyebrow arched. "You really must work on your excuses, Richard, or at least be honest. No is a perfectly acceptable answer or even you spurned me once I'm not going to open myself up to another knock back."

It was his turn to arch an eyebrow, an equally wry smile gracing his lips. "And you said that you were no longer the forthright woman I knew. Maybe it won't be such a long and arduous task."

"Maybe it's just what you bring out in me." Her fingers continued to massage the back of his hand, oblivious to the fact they were still joined. "Let me be honest. I would very much like to make you dinner, to say thank you for your support these past few months, to show you that your friendship means more to me than just words. Possibly I realised that having someone in my life could only make it better. Having you in my life makes it better." Reluctantly, she released his hand before rising to her feet. "Of course if you'd rather eat a cheese and pickle sandwich in your office then that's entirely up to you." She began to walk towards the door, counting slowly to ten in her head as she waited for his reaction.

"What time should I be there?" he asked before she made it to four, her words barely sinking in. "And dare I ask if we are dressing for dinner?"

She shook her head, safe in the knowledge that she knew exactly how to goad him to do her will, and delighted that he agreed. Turning to look at him, she replied smugly, "shall we say seven thirty. You may if you wish dress, but as it is only going to be the two of us I was hoping for a more informal evening."

"I will see you at seven thirty," he replied as her grin widened and she turned once more to leave. Although he wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, the mere fact that a simple acceptance could bring a smile to her face and sparkle to her eyes was enough to make him happier than he had been in months.

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	9. Chapter 9

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Apologies for the delay but I had minor surgery and what should have been a quick recovery, has instead left me tired and unable to concentrate for too long. Thankfully the last two chapters only needed a little tweaking.

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Chapter Nine

The evening so far had been a somewhat stilted affair. Richard's arrival had sent Isobel into a minor frenzy, nervous tension making it almost impossible for her to say the right thing. For his part Richard was bemused by her behaviour, enjoying seeing another side of her but unable to fathom why she was sudden in such disarray. For months he has been watchful, vigilant even, that she might break; for once he allowed himself to relax and enjoy her company.

Dinner had been announced and he had followed her into the dining room, surprised by how romantic a setting she had created, taking in every simple detail before pulling her chair out and waiting for her to get comfortable. His hand lingered on the back of her chair, wanting so desperately for the evening to be a date, to be able to squeeze her shoulder and take her hand, but common sense prevented him doing either, and instead he took the seat to her right. The first course had arrived almost immediately and she had spent most of the course apologising for the food, despite his constant reassurance that he was enjoying it very much. As the meal progressed, and one conversation topic after another became exhausted they both became more intent on eating and enjoying the fine wine than on conversation. When they did manage to talk the subjects were as far removed from what happened as they could find and for some inexplicable reason Isobel refused to meet his eye. It wasn't the most awkward dinner he had ever attended, there had been plenty of those at the Abbey, but it was certainly not what he had expected. Their friendship it seemed was far from being as it had before the fair.

When she finally thought he might have finished eating, he enquired after a second helping of dessert and she found herself fixing a smile on her face and heaping another helping of pie onto his plate. It wasn't at all how she had anticipated the evening going but she was so far out of practice that she wasn't even sure what to do to get them on track. Propping her head on her hand she settled for watching him eat, quietly sipping the dessert wine for courage.

"Shall we adjourn to the sitting room for coffee?" Isobel asked, as the spoon finally clattered against the dish and he patted his lips with the napkin.

"Yes, of course. Sorry."

She waved his apology off as she rose to her feet and moved away from the table. "I'd apologise for dinner but you seemed to enjoy it."

"I spend my evenings eating soup or sandwiches and reading medical journals. That was on par with eating in a fine restaurant," he replied with a wry smile, opening the door and waiting for her to pass before he followed her down the hallway.

"I've skipped so many meals, asked for little more than substance for so long that I think the poor girl has forgotten how to cook." She indicated the settee and once he was settled she dropped onto the soft cream material beside him. "Would you like anything? More coffee? Some port?"

"I'm fine, thank you." He turned his body slightly to face her, his arm resting comfortably on the arm of the sofa.

"Then relax. You've been jumpy all evening." In truth he had been quiet unusually so, while she had been the one who was jumpy. Isobel made herself comfortable on the settee, smoothing down her skirt as she waited for the right moment.

He was so close, his cologne teasing her, his fingers drumming the settee between them, that if she moved even an inch they would be touching. They had been closer, his arms pressing against her back as she broke, whispering words of comfort into her hair. From time to time she had even wondered what he would do if she ever lifted her head, turned towards his lips but she had rebuked the idea, unwilling to sacrifice such a sacred friendship for a moment of feeling.

"You've gone incredibly quiet," he said softly, ducking his head to catch her eye.

"I wonder what state this world would be if we voiced all our thoughts."

"A very subtle way of telling me to mind my own business," he mused with a hollow laugh, not in the least bit offended.

"No, not at all," she assured him, turning her body to look at him properly, her thigh brushing against his hand her undoing. Silently, without thinking about it further, she raised her hand, her fingertips feather lite as she stroked his cheek, his eyes registering his surprise just as she leaned in and brushed his lips with her own for the briefest of seconds.

"Isobel," he said, his protest feeble as she pulled away, her body pressed against the arm of the chair as she put distance between them. His heart pounded a little faster in his chest and the temperature in the room had gone up by several degrees but he couldn't take his eyes of her face, for fear that it wasn't real, that she might show regret.

"Oh my I've made you uncomfortable."

"Not at all. But it's late I should go." He continued to sit, unsure if he could actually stand, a strange light-headedness washing over him.

She laughed. "It's really not that late." She tilted her head, her brow furrowing as she searched his face for explanation. "Oh, you mean it's too late." She slid back against the back of the couch, wondering if it was really too late.

"It's nearly ten," Richard said, watching as the myriad of emotions crossed Isobel's face. It was clear in that second that they were talking at cross purposes, that she was questioning his feelings towards her. Taking a deep breath, he added, "That's all I meant."

"You were once on the verge of proposing to me."

He covered his face with his hands. "And you prevented me from making a fool of myself, Isobel. It's better that I leave then you possibly having to do that again."

"You no longer feel so inclined towards me," she stated rather than asked, her expression one of confusion. "I thought your feelings towards me were a large part behind the way you have so painstakingly been there for me these past months, why you have for all intent and purpose been my guardian angel."

"I have tried to conceal my admiration for you." And failed, he mused.

"You are a gentleman in every sense of the word and I have never once felt uncomfortable or unduly pressurised. But I think . . . what I'm asking is . . . whether you are no longer so inclined to the idea of marriage." She took a breath and waited, hoping that she hadn't left it too late.

His hands slid from his face and he found himself staring into the deep chocolate pools of her eyes. "I do not want you to feel uncomfortable, nor do I want our relationship to change, but. . ." He trailed off, debating the merits of honesty, but deciding that they had been through so much to continue on a false premise. "I am still very much inclined to marriage but as I can not imagine marrying anyone but you I fear I may spend the rest of my days as a bachelor."

"And yet you have pushed those feelings aside." Her hand inched its way closer, her little finger barely brushing his.

"And will continue to do so." However much it pained him, he understood now why friendship was so important to her, and loving her meant doing whatever he could to make her happy.

"And you will consider me very forward if I now sit here and admit that's not what I want."

Confusion etched across his features as they continued to stare at each other. She wavered under his gaze, fearful that she had become too forward but she refused to look away, wanting so desperately for him to understand that she was ready. The only thing preventing her from laying it out in the simplest terms was propriety and even that seemed to finally be slipping away between them. "You owe me nothing."

"I know. This isn't coming from my grief, or a need to feel something. If it was . . . we would have probably ended up between the sheets a long time a go."

"I would never have . . ." A faint flush covered his cheeks as an image of her from his dreams crept unbidden into his mind. There was something eternally erotic about a simple white sheet draped around her naked body, curls of auburn hair tumbling down her back. Familiar stirrings made him turn away.

"I probably would have engineered something." She shrugged nonchalantly as if it was the most ordinary conversation they had ever had.

He flushed redder and offered with a faint grin, "How much persuasion I would have needed I can not say."

"So we have wasted an opportunity," she commented dryly and he turned back to look at her properly. "I find myself wanting more from our relationship. No, that's not right. I am ready to move forward. Take the next step. And I wonder what it would be like if you and I were to embark on courtship."

"Are you ready for such a step?" he asked, wary of the happiness he felt.

"I kissed you, remember?" As if to prove her point she slid closer and kissed him again. This time her lips lingered.

Richard savoured the taste of her lips against his, eliciting the smallest of moans as she varied the pressure ever so slightly. His hand moved by its own volition to her back, holding her awkwardly as he deepened the kiss, his other hand finding its way to toy with the hair at the nape of her neck. Her own hands clutched at his shoulders. When they separated a second time her eyes were shut and her breathing laboured. "Isobel?"

"I'm alright." She leaned in towards him, pressing her forehead against his.

"I've waited a long time to do that."

"Was it worth the wait?" she asked, her voice almost inaudible against the beating of her heart.

Gently he took her hand, placing the palm on his chest. "Very much, my dearest."

"Thank God." Her fingers gently massaged his chest through his shirt. "So where, pray tell, do we go from here?"

A long silent pause echoed between them as he considered his answer carefully, not wanting to rush her when she had come so far already, but not wanting her to think him a rogue. "I think for now I say goodnight and go home. I think you should take some time to be sure this is really what you want."

"It is."

"Then tomorrow, we'll talk properly, discuss what happens next. Allow us both to act with clear heads."

"Rather than on what?" she asked with a smirk, her fingers straying slightly further over his body until he covered them with his own hand, stopping her ministrations.

"I'm a gentleman and you're a lady so we'll leave it on the fact we both need a good nights sleep."

Isobel pulled back until she could look him in the eye. "You won't always be such a spoilsport, will you?"

He laughed lightly. "I can assure you now, my darling, that I am relying on all the willpower I have to leave now. If you are quite sure that you wish us to embark on a relationship then I can promise you that I will willing act on what I am suppressing right now."

"Good." Her lips once more found his, nipping at his bottom lip until he tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her back with a passion she had never known.

They were both quietly breathless when he finally released her. "I really should go now," he announced, rising to his feet and pulling her up with him. "Allow you to sleep. Maybe we can meet for lunch tomorrow and talk."

"Yes, I'd like that." She wanted to say so much more but words failed her and she was struggling to get her breath back, instead she gave him the brightest, most genuine smile.

Reverently he kissed her again, finally holding her against his body, his chin resting on her hair, his hands splayed on her back as he held her. "I like this, being able to hold you."

"I like being held." She laughed awkwardly. "That sounded so corny."

"I only want you to be happy."

"I am."

Gently he released her. "And now I really should go." His fingers entwined with hers as they walked along the hallway so he could retrieve his coat and hat.

"Goodnight Richard," she said softly, lovingly, as he opened the door and prepared to set foot into the cold air.

"Good night Isobel." His gaze lingered on her, unwilling to leave. She looked so beautiful standing there, hair hanging loosely from the knot, a smile gracing her lips that he hadn't seen for the longest time. If he had wondered at any time whether it was love or just loneliness that had brought him to her, he knew in that second just how much he loved her. Finally, unwillingly he turned and stepped out onto the step.

She watched as he disappeared around the corner before closing the door and leaning back against it. Nibbling her bottom lip between her teeth, she stood there, smiling to herself, surprised by the effect his kisses had on her, considering what surprises he might still have in store for her.


	10. Chapter 10

This is the final chapter. It's taken me a little long than I planned but They are exactly where I want them. The recent stills from filming have given my muse a little shove so hopefully more of these two to come.

Lavender and Hay - you loved the word so much I had to put it in.

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Chapter Ten

There were times when the littlest of things would trigger a deep profound sadness; she would catch sight of his picture bathed in sunlight and for a moment the memories would come flooding back, or Edward would smile and she was transported back thirty eight years with baby Matthew curled up in her arms, gazing up at her. Sometimes the tears would fall unbidden, other times she would find herself lost in her thoughts. For the past week she had also been blessed with inexplicable happiness. They had had little time together, with the family and the hospital pulling them in different directions, preventing them from actually having the conversation he had so insisted upon. The fact was there was really no need for it because when Richard looked at her, when he kissed her, when his arms held her so reverently, she knew it was what she wanted, that no amount of time or talk would change her mind.

In public nothing had really changed between; they worked side by side in the hospital, she brought him tea and biscuits after rounds and Richard continued to watch over her. Alone, everything had changed, so much time had been wasted that she was loath to waste another minute. There were times in the privacy of his office she would initiate contact, slipping to stand between his desk and his chair, flirting shamelessly with the man who had rescued her from her darkest despair. He made her brave, even more liberated than before, confident that life was still worth living and while their kisses were chaste, their fingers barely touching, they held the promise of so much more.

The fact that they were still able to work side by side at the hospital she took as a good sign, even if they seemed to have spent most of the last few days there than working on their fledgling relationship. After weeks of the hospital being almost empty the wards were now full to capacity, another outbreak of influenza bringing down half the village, and she had been by his side every day that he would allow her.

The day had been another long one but finally she had convinced him to take an evening off and walk her home, lest he be struck down too.

"Are you sure you can spare the time?" she asked as they crossed the small patch of green outside the church. He had been reluctant to leave, still convinced that things would fall apart without him and even as they walked she sensed his thoughts were still there.

Richard glanced down at her, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "The hospital know where to find me, Isobel. I'm all yours."

"I'm so glad to hear it."

He chuckled lightly. "I just wish . . ." He wished for so much, not least that they had found time to discuss their future, that he could show her how much he wanted to be with her. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the stolen kisses and the feel of her hand in his, but his intentions were so much more honourable.

"Hush," she said, interrupting yet another apology. "It doesn't matter." Her fingers gently squeezed the arm she was holding. "It really doesn't."

"So what exactly are we doing?" he asked, giving her a small nod in acquiescence. "Because I know you are up to something."

"I have something for you," Isobel announced with a smile, pushing open the gate and tugging him with her. "Please come in and I'll fetch it for you."

Opening the door, Isobel slipped out of her coat, hanging it on the hook before disappearing down the hallway. Bemused by the change in her, the Isobel he knew so well returning, Richard placed his hat on the hall table and followed her down the hallway to the library, calling after her.

"I hope you still like it."

"I'm sure I'll love it." Standing in the doorway, he allowed his eyes to survey the room, pleased and surprised that what had a few weeks ago been chaotic now had order. The books were now restored to their shelves and the desk held little but her writing materials.

"I tidied up a little," she offered with a shrug as she watched him from across the room.

"A lot, I might chance."

Isobel knelt on an armchair and leaned over, almost landing head first on the carpet as she misjudged the distance, before retrieving a package from behind it.

"Would you like some help?" He asked, moving swiftly across the room until he was standing behind her, his hands either side of her waist, ready to catch her if she slipped again.

Closing her eyes she leaned into his hands, her body reacting as it always did to his touch. It had always been there, she realised, his effect on her, but she had chosen to ignore for so long, now she fully intended to enjoy it. "No, I'm fine," she said, finally turning to look at him, settling herself on her knees as she held out the small rectangular frame towards him.

Richard glanced down at the painting in her hands, recognising it at once. "It's beautiful, Isobel." He admired the intricate watercolour, taking in the delicate brushwork, one last time before turning to look at her. "Thank you."

"It should be me who is thanking you. If it hadn't been for you I don't know how I would have made it through the last few months," she offered genuinely.

"You would have found a way. You're stronger than you realise." He lifted the painting and held it up to the light. I'm going to hang this in my bedroom."

Isobel swallowed hard. "So you can look at it and think of me?" she asked nervously, her voice barely above a whisper.

Carefully Richard placed the painting on the desk and turned, taking her hand in his. "I think about you all the time. But when I look at it I'll remember how you always see the beauty in everything."

"Richard," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat, her heart beating a little faster as she saw the full extent of his admiration in his eyes.

Gently he cupped her face in his free hand. "To remind me how beautiful you are." He sighed deeply, his fingers lightly caressing her cheek, the desire to kiss her almost overwhelming him. "I should go."

"Or you could stay," she said, her voice coming out almost huskily as nerves got the better of her. When she had invited him to the house she had intended to present him with the painting and ask him to stay for dinner. A simple seduction would follow or at least that was her intention, the how still escaped her. Now faced with his immediate departure her head was spinning.

"For dinner?"

She nodded mutely, before turning her head away. "And the night, if you would like."

Silence echoed between them as he realised what she was suggesting, a gentle battle waging between his head and his heart. With a deep resigned sigh, he tilted her face until he could once more look her in the eyes, and he gave her a loving smile, "When you're ready. I want you to want me to stay."

"I am. I do. You're more than just a life raft, Richard. When you're kissing me, when you hold me, I don't forget everything, pretend that everything is alright. I feel happy. I see that there is a future worth living for. I wonder what your fingers would feel like against my bare hip, I wonder whether your hair sticks up in the morning. I even allow myself to imagine what our days would be like when you retire."

Her passionate declaration made his heart soar. "I wonder how we'd end our days. Would we sit up for hours talking or would we sit in bed reading? I wonder whether I'd ever get to read a medical journal again." A slight flush tinged his cheeks as he considered the other possibilities.

"Stay and find out." She no longer felt hesitant, no longer had any qualms about what she wanted, the idea of dinner forgotten.

"I want to. But I only have so much self control, Isobel."

She shrugged nonchalantly before giving him the smallest of smirks. "Then I'll come home with you."

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Richard didn't suppress the eye roll.

"I know. But I want you to take me by the hand and take me to bed. And before you suggest it's grief talking. It isn't. It's love. I love you."

His smile widened as he continued to gaze down at her, the surprise evident as he asked, "You love me?"

"I think I have for a long time, Richard. When you almost asked me to marry you I was scared, fearful that we would embark on a relationship and it would end badly. I would lose your friendship and the life I had. Which all seems a little silly now because our friendship has survived probably the worst time in my life. Because my life is infinitesimally better with you."

"So you will let me court you with the intention of one day proposing?" Inwardly he groaned. Isobel, the woman he loved, was inviting him into her bed, and he was trying to restore propriety to their relationship, but the gentleman in him wouldn't let her make such a sacrifice without it.

"Yes. But . . ." She began to worry her lip between her teeth. "I. . . ."

"You can say anything to me," he assured her, taking her hand in his and gently entwining their fingers. "Anything. We can take this at your pace. We don't ever have to get married if it's not something you want. And I would never take advantage of you." He continued to ramble, no longer set on reassuring her but trying to divert his attention from the idea of taking her to bed.

"That's good to know. Because as nice as holding hands and sharing kisses is, I was hoping we could go a little faster."

"I think we've moved pretty quickly already," he laughed awkwardly. She looked momentarily hurt and he instantly regretted his comment. "Didn't you once tell me that if you wanted to get me between the sheets you could engineer something?" he asked, teasing her as his hand released hers and lightly stroked her arm, trying to diffuse the sudden intensity that had come over them, wanting to bring a smile to her lips again.

"I invited you in to look at my painting," she replied coyly.

"It's been a long time since I did this."

"That's reassuring."

"I just want you to know that I don't make a habit . . . I may be out of practice . . . Isobel, I love you, I want ever second we spend together to be . . ." His thoughts were cut short as she leaned in and kissed him forcefully on the lips.

As she pulled back, she smiled, "I may be out of practice too, but I'm pretty sure it will be much better if we do more of this." She kissed him again. "And less talking."

He nodded, stealing another kiss, deepening the kiss as her hands slid up and over his chest to entwine at the nape of his neck. When he finally pulled away she was gazing up at him, wide eyed, her cheeks a little flushed and all he wanted in that second was to see the rest of her naked and flushed. "So, Isobel, are you going to give me a tour of the first floor?"

"I thought you would never ask." Rising to her feet, she entwined her fingers with his, half leading, half tugging him through the door and up the stairs. "So these are the stairs."

"Yes, they are."

"And there are four bedrooms, two bathrooms. . ." She was rambling a little she knew, but she couldn't help herself.

They almost made it as far as the landing when nerves got the better of him too and he came to an abrupt halt. "Isobel, are you sure?"

Isobel turned, looking down at him from two steps above him. "I'm sure, my darling man." Dropping his hand, she gently cupped his face. "I want to go asleep in your arms tonight. I want to wake up in your arms tomorrow and for many more tomorrows."

"I've dreamt of this for months, years. Now that were actually contemplating. . . I do so love you."

Isobel shook her head, wondering how she became so lucky. "I love you." Lightly she brushed her lips over his. "Now I really do think it's time we stop talking and try a new approach." Her hand sought his, clasping it firmly as she pulled him up the last few treads and towards her bedroom.

The End


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